


Aftermath

by MycroftexMachina



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017-2018 NHL Season, Future Fic, M/M, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 21:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11769018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MycroftexMachina/pseuds/MycroftexMachina
Summary: It would be much easier if they could just fall in love with each other.





	Aftermath

**I. Mitch**

 

“Are we actually doing this?” Mitch asks once he’s sat on a lawn chair in the Stromes’ backyard.

 

“I know you’d rather _die_ than do this,” Stromer replies from his spot on the dewy grass. He’s wearing shorts, a Coyotes tank top and nothing else—typical Stromer outfit for when it’s the off season. He looks like he just woke up, but Mitch knows differently.

 

“Then why am I here?” Mitch whines after attempting, without much luck, to remove Stromer’s sunglasses to check on him. It might be summer in the GTA, but come the fuck on. It’s, like, ten in the morning.

 

Stromer swats Mitch’s hand away, and Mitch pouts, but lets it go. The raccoon memes are out there for a reason. Stromer might have had the NHL rookie season to end all rookie seasons—he’s up for the Calder for something. Nevertheless, Mitch knows for a fact that he’s exhausted beyond belief for reasons other than hockey. Mitch tries very hard not to feel guilty about it, but it’s difficult.

 

It doesn't help that the Coyotes barely made the playoffs, with Stromer dragging them along for the ride whether they wanted it or not, to then be summarily kicked out in five games. At least the Leafs survived through the first round to go out with a whimper during the second one. Awesome accomplishment, really. Top marks for trying. If they keep this up, they might get to the Stanley Cup Final by the time Mitch is 24.

 

“Because misery loves company,” Stromer replies mercilessly.

 

Mitch rolls his eyes and makes himself confortable on the chair.

 

“You should keep me company on the grass,” Stromer says.

 

“In your dreams,” Mitch responds. “I’m not fucking up my back in the off-season because you need a cry-buddy.”

 

“ _You_ need a cry-buddy,” Stromer points out—true—and, really, the chirps between the two of them have been getting pathetic in the last few months. It’s like they’re not even trying.

 

“Have you been sleeping?” Mitch asks.

 

“Like a baby,” Stromer smirks.

 

“So, no,” Mitch translates—he is fluent in Stromer-tongue. He’s become fluent in plenty of Stromer-related things since they’ve become each other’s confidant.

 

Stromer shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but Mitch can read Stromer’s shrugs as well as he can understand Stromer’s English.

 

“Jesus, Dyls,” Mitch sighs, because what else is there to say?

 

“Shut up, Mitchy,” Stromer says, rising from the ground and sitting on Mitch’s chair, like there aren’t three others he can choose from. “It’s not like you’re much better.”

 

“I am sleeping just fine,” Mitch defends himself, because it’s true. He’s sleeping, like, twelve hours a day. It’s insane. His parents would be worried if they hadn’t believed him when he pleaded playoff exhaustion.

 

“You must be 140 pounds soaking wet,” Stromer comments poking at Mitch’s ribs. “Coach’s gonna kill you.”

 

“I’m fine,” Mitch says with a frown. It’s more than that for sure, though he better fill up before training camp starts in August, or he’s gonna have bigger problems than Babs attempting to murder him.

 

“Right,” Stromer snorts. He removes his sunglasses and Mitch can see the bags under his eyes, even more pronounced than when they’d last been face to face.

 

Mitch brings a hand to his face and rubs his eyes in an attempt to hide from Stromer’s piercing gaze. Stromer doesn't let him, though, and he grabs Mitch’s wrist with a firm grip. Mitch stares at Stromer’s hand, and then at Stromer’s face.

 

“At least, between the two of us, we’ve got one fully-functioning adult,” he tries to joke.

 

Stromer smiles, although there is so much strain around his eyes that Mitch is afraid he’s gonna break. Mitch knows it’s not his fault— _he does—_ but when Stromer looks at him like that, Mitch wishes things had gone differently.

 

“Wasn't that in your yearbook? Mitch Marner: the one most likely to become a half-functioning adult.”

 

“Fuck off, Stromer,” Mitch laughs.

 

He makes space so Dylan can sit more comfortably near him—not that these chairs were made to hold two hockey players, one of which is a giant. It’s a tight squeeze, but once they’re positioned for maximum cuddling—which, let’s face it, had been Mitch’s plan all along—Stromer lays his chin on Mitch’s head and starts petting his hair.

 

“Seriously, Dyls,” Mitch says. “Have you been sleeping?”

 

“A bit,” Stromer confesses with a sigh. “It’s better now that I’m back home. Mum’s pretty intense about meals and whatever. She’s got me on a schedule and that helps.”

 

Mitch hums in agreement. The rookie year in the NHL is the hardest, regardless of the living arrangements. Mitch was lucky his mum cooked for him and basically took care of him until he learned to take care of himself—to be fair, that’s a work in progress. Stromer didn't have that luxury. On top of that, Stromer had been forced to take care of Mitch non-stop for months, so that added to the stress for sure.

 

“Okay,” Mitch says. They’ve been friends for so long Mitch knows Dylan wouldn't lie to him about something this important.

 

Stromer continues to pet Mitch’s hair soothingly. “Have you been eating?”

 

“A bit,” Mitch echoes. “I mean, it’s still not great, and sometimes I feel like I’m gonna throw up no matter what. But it’s getting better. But it was never as bad as you thought, I swear.”

 

Mitch gets up slightly so he can look at Dyls in the eyes for this. He knows how important eating properly is in general. In their case, it’s paramount they get the right nutrients and the correct amount of calories.

 

“It was only that week that I really couldn't,” he explains. “Talking to you helped.”

 

“Okay,” Stromer says with a soft smile.

 

Mitch lies back on Stromer’s chest.

 

“So,” Mitch tries again, “are we doing this?”

 

“It’s up to you, Mitchy. I’m not going anywhere,” Stromer murmurs.

 

Mitch doesn't say anything, because he knows it to be true. They’ve been friends for years, him and Dylan. They’d gotten very close right before the draft—what with the international tourney and the combine. But Mitch had never thought Dylan would become Mitch’s _person_. For one, they’re very different, Mitch with his constant highs and Stromer with his sedate pace and his steadiness.

 

Also, Mitch had been much closer to his London buddies and then, during his NHL rookie season, he’d become friends with Marty and Matty. He still had had plenty of time to annoy Stromer on a regular basis, but they hadn’t been in each other’s pocket like they have in the past six months. And to be completely honest, someone else had been vying for the ‘Mitch’s Favorite Person’ Award by then.

 

As for Stromer … Well, Stromer has been _Davo’s_ for as long as Mitch has cared about him. But then, things had changed. Mitch tries not to feel guilty about that also.

 

“Okay,” Mitch agrees, because they need to talk, and Mitch needs to make some pretty serious decisions.

 

“Okay,” Stromer echoes and squeezes Mitch affectionately.

 

“Can we take a nap before?” Mitch asks, because he did sleep like the dead, but he’s still tired—food is Dyls’ escape, dreamland is Mitch’s.

 

“We might as well,” Stromer concedes, trying to find a position which allows him to fall asleep while holding a fully grown man on top of him—Mitch might be tiny when compared to the rest of the NHL, but he’s still six foot tall, and fuck you very much to whoever keeps correcting his Wikipedia page back to 5 foot 11 inches.

 

Mitch hums and lets his eyelids drop.

 

“Go to sleep, Marns,” Mitch hears Stromer saying right before he loses his battle with Morpheus. “Our fucked-up life is gonna be here once we wake up.”

 

And isn’t that the truth?

 

**II. Mitch**

Mitch is jerked awake from a lovely dream involving Skittles in neon colors by a scream, immediately followed by ice-cold water.

 

“What the fuck,” he yells getting off the chair in a belated attempt to avoid getting wet.

 

“What the fuck,” Stromer blurts out. He has the culprit in his line of vision, and when he turns, Mitch sees Ryan Strome with an empty pitcher in one hand and murder in his eyes.

 

“What the fuck,” Ryan says. Mitch would be worried about all of the cursing in the Stromes’ backyard if he didn't know that Dylan and Ryan’s parents are at work. It’s midday on a Wednesday, after all. That’s what normal people do. They go to work.

 

“What the hell, Ryan,” Mitch says while passing a hand through his wet hair.

 

“Are you fucking insane?” Dylan adds, finally getting off the chair too. He got the brunt of the water, while Mitch got enough to scare him to death without getting completely soaked.

 

“What the fuck are you two doing?” Ryan asks, yielding the pitcher as if it were a weapon.

 

“We were sleeping, dickhead, what do you think?” Stromer answers. He gets his top off and Mitch does the same with his t-shirt, or at least he tries.

 

“Absolutely not,” Ryan says, grabbing Mitch’s hand and attempting to drag him away from where he is standing besides Dylan.

 

“Let go, Ryan,” Mitch protests. “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?”

 

“You are not getting naked here,” Ryan says and continues to try to drag Mitch in the house.

 

Mitch looks at Ryan like he has suddenly grown another head, and then turns to Dylan, and mouths ‘Help’.

 

“Ryan, let Mitch go,” he tries.

 

“Mitch?” Ryan gasps. “ _Mitch_?” he repeats at a higher pitch, as if saying Mitch’s name more than once is going to achieve some not-very-well-specified objective. “It’s Mitch, now, isn’t it?” he snarls.

 

Mitch frowns at him, taken aback by Ryan’s tone.

 

“It’s his fucking name, Ryan,” Dylan observes, clearly as flabbergasted by the whole thing as Mitch is feeling.

 

“His name is Marns,” Ryan states adamantly, like that makes perfect sense.

 

“Are you high?” Mitch asks, because he’s not really sure what’s going on, but it’s certainly not the new normal in the Stromes’ household.

 

Ryan is still holding him by the wrist, and it’s starting to fucking hurt, so Mitch pulls hard and finally dislodges him. Just to be on the safe side, he goes near Dylan. He’s not sure what the hell is going on, but Dylan is bigger than Ryan and he’s going to protect Mitch.

 

“Am I high?” Ryan repeats, the pitcher still in his hand. “Am _I_ high? What the fuck do you two think you are doing?”

 

Mitch looks at Stromer, who looks back at him still in shock. Clearly Mitch is not the only one who thinks he’s woken up to an alternate reality.

 

“We just told you, Ry,” Dylan says.

 

Mitch can tell Dylan’s using his brother’s name’s shortened form in an attempt to placate him. He isn’t sure it’s gonna work.

 

“Yeah, right,” Ryan snorts, “you were sleeping.” He spats that out like Mitch and Dylan had been sacrificing puppies and baby goats to the gods of lockouts.

 

“We were,” Mitch insists, because it seems important. Plus, he really wants to get dry, and, apparently, convincing Ryan that nothing untoward is happening might be the only way that’s gonna get achieved.

 

“Couldn't you each use one chair?”

 

“What are you, the lawn police?” Dylan says annoyed.

 

“Dyls …” Mitch says, and Ryan looks at him.

 

“Since when are _you_ calling him Dyls?”

 

“This is stupid” Mitch interjects, because this _is_ stupid—like, a new level altogether for the Strome family. And this is saying something, considering Mitch knows how stupid Dylan and Matty can get.

 

“I agree,” Stromer says, looking at his brother thunderously. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

 

“What’s wrong with me? I’m not the one who is fucking around his best friend’s back with his new boy-toy,” Ryan sneers.

 

Mitch’s eyes go as wide as saucers and he can see Stromer’s eyebrows rise in shock.

 

“Boy-toy?” Mitch asks.

 

It’s admittedly a bit strangled, but he’s never been called boy-toy before. And that’s saying something, considering he’s been playing hockey for fifteen years.

 

“Fucking around?” Stromer says.

 

Mitch is not having it. “No, no, no,” he says, turning his full attention towards Ryan Strome. “I want to hear him elaborate about the boy-toy part, before he explains the fucking around part.”

 

Ryan must realize that he just said something as degrading as it was hurtful, because he gulps loudly. His eyes dart back and forth, first looking at his brother, who, as far as Mitch can tell, is still shocked, and then at Mitch himself, who, by now, is livid.

 

“So,” Mitch says waving his hand. “Boy-toy.”

 

Ryan looks away mortified before saying, “Sorry, that wasn't very nice.” Which would be kind of appreciated if it weren’t for the fact that Ryan has behaved like a complete jackass since he found Mitch and Dylan asleep on the lawn chair.

 

“Actually,” Stromer interrupts. “Before that, there is the best friend’s back part to consider as well.”

 

Mitch starts to object but then he nods thoughtfully.

 

“You’re right,” he concedes, looking at Dylan, who looks back at him.

 

“I thought I was your best friend,” Mitch continues, waggling his eyebrows. Now he’s just fucking with Ryan, but he deserves it.

 

“You are,” Stromer confirms.

 

“And you’ve been fucking around my back?” Mitch asks with a smirk.

 

“Apparently,” Dylan admits.

 

Mitch faux-gasps, bringing his hand to his chest like a Victorian heroine.

 

“With me?” he asks, pretending to be confused about the logistics of it all.

 

Ryan seems to have had enough of being the butt end of the joke, however. “You both know perfectly well I wasn't referring to Marns when I mentioned Dyls’ best friend.”

 

Mitch stares at him encouragingly but Ryan ignores him and finally drops the pitcher on the grass. He then goes to grab a couple of towels Mitch hadn’t noticed and toss them in their direction.

 

Mitch takes this as permission to get his wet t-shirt off so he can get dry, and Dylan follows suit.

 

Ryan sits on one of the dry chairs and gestures for Mitch and Dylan to do the same.

 

Mitch, who is not stupid and has figured out where this is going, looks at Dylan and whisper ‘Your show’ in his ears.

 

Stromer nods and goes to sit down across from Ryan. Mitch opts to stand behind his best friend—fuck what Ryan Strome thinks. _He_ is Dylan’s best friend, and not some random number-one-pick among other random number-one-picks who will go unnamed because they’re all asshole fucks.

 

“So let me get this straight,” Stromer begins, and Mitch snickers—he’s a ten years old at heart, always will be. The Strome brothers ignore him.

 

“You are offended on Davo’s behalf, because you caught me asleep on a lawn chair with Marns, here, and you think… what exactly?” Dylan asks.

 

Mitch can tell he’s genuinely confused about Ryan’s behavior. But, then, Ryan is not privy to the information Mitch and Dylan have.

 

“Since when are you two together?” Ryan replies.

 

“We are not together,” Dylan explains calmly.

 

Mitch is kind of impressed. His reaction would be to laugh his ass off at anyone who’d think him and Stromer could ever be more than friends.

 

Ryan’s eyebrows rise in obvious disbelief, and Dylan grits his teeth.

 

“It’s really not your fucking business, Ryan,” Dylan tells him, “but Marns and I are not together.”

 

“Yeah, right,” Ryan snorts.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Ryan?” Dylan asks angrily.

 

Mitch can’t really blame him, there. He’s not particularly close to the eldest Strome brother, but he never got the impression he was in the habit of doubting someone’s word.

 

“I know what I saw,” Ryan says mulishly.

 

“You clearly know nothing at all,” Dylan throws back. “As far as I’m concerned you’re also never going to know anything at all ever again, because you’re behaving like a fucking moron. Still, for the last time, Marns and me aren’t like that. We’ve never been together, we’re not together right now and we’ll never be together. No offence, Mitch.”

 

“None taken,” Mitch says with a smile. He’s never been interested in Stromer romantically. He’s never been interested in any guy like that, with one exception—and that wasn't anything to write home about.

 

Ryan ponders that for a bit, and something must convince him he made a colossal mistake, because he nods.

 

“Alright. Since when is Davo not your best friend, then?”

 

Mitch sees Dylan’s eyes go as hard as flint.

 

“Why don't you ask him?” Dylan responds, his smile shark-like.

 

“What do you mean?” Ryan comments.

 

“Well,” Stromer begins. “You play with him and see him regularly. Me, I haven’t talked to him in a while. When was it, Marns? December?”

 

“Yep,” Mitch confirms. Then he corrects himself. “No, no. You called him for his birthday, remember? He’d just broken it off with his girlfriend and was in a funk. That’s the last you spoke with him.”

 

“Are you sure it wasn't December?” Dylan asks, a frown marring his forehead.

 

“Positive. December was the whole Matts thing. On New Year’s Eve,” Mitch explains. His heart squeezes, but Mitch resolutely ignores it. “Davo was definitely January.”

 

“Matts?” Ryan interjects, blatantly confused.

 

Mitch dismisses that with a wave. “It was January,” he repeats.

 

“Okay,” Dylan agrees, accepting Mitch’s timeline. “So I’d say I haven’t been best friends with Davo since … what is the timeframe, you think? Do you stop being best friend with someone the second they behave like jerks, or is there, like, an interval?”

 

Mitch shrugs, because what the fuck does he know.

 

“Wait, wait,” Ryan says.

 

Mitch looks at the eldest Strome brother, who looks back perplexed.

 

“You’re telling me,” Ryan continues, “that you,” and here he looks at Dylan, “haven’t talked to Davo for months.”

 

“Yep,” Stromer confirms.

 

“And you,” Ryan turns to Mitch, “haven’t talked to Matthews for months also?”

 

“Oh, no,” Mitch says. “I talk to Matts all the time.”

 

Ryan seems relieved at the news, so Mitch feels compelled to add, “I just don't hang out with him unless I have to, because he’s a fucking fuck who sucks and I am not friends with people like that.”

 

“Like me and Davo,” Stromer adds helpfully.

 

“What the hell?” Ryan says.

 

“Yeah, that was our reaction too,” Mitch concedes.

 

“What the fuck did they do?” Ryan asks astounded.

 

**III. Mitch**

It’s a testament to Ryan Strome’s good heart that he doesn't doubt for a second his brother is not at fault here. Mitch likes that—it reminds him of Chris’ reaction when Mitch explained what had happened.

 

Stromer looks at Mitch, since everything started _because_ of Mitch, so it’s really Mitch’s story to tell. Mitch shrugs, extremely reluctant to recount those days to anyone. It was bad enough at the time—it still is, since he has to play with Matts and everyone else, and Matts is a fucking asshole. Reliving it when he doesn't have to see them for a few months isn’t his idea of fun. Still, it will get Ryan Strome off their backs.

 

“Matthews caught me with someone who wasn't my girlfriend,” Mitch begins hesitantly.

 

“It wasn't me,” Dylan hastens to clarify, which Mitch appreciates because, with the way the day is going, he might get decked before sunset.

 

“Right,” Mitch continues. “It doesn't matter now who she was. Fact is, Matts walked in on the two of us before we could do anything. He scared the girl away and started screaming bloody murder. We were in Vegas. In a hotel.”

 

Ryan winces in sympathy, which Mitch also appreciates.

 

“Precisely,” Mitch says. “So I have barely gotten the time to get dressed before half the team comes to my room. Matthews just keeps yelling at me about how I’m an awful human being, and how I should be ashamed of myself for being a fucking cheater that cheats—which I thought was hypocritical considering what I have seen, but whatever—and then Marty starts screaming at me too, and Brownie and Hymie are looking at the whole thing like it’s a tennis match or something.”

 

“Jesus,” Ryan whispers.

 

“Then the veterans arrive,” Mitch ignores the interruption, “and Matthews starts recounting what he witnessed in excruciating details, still yelling like a hyena, in case people on the other floors hadn’t heard what he thought of me and my appalling behavior the first time around. Mo and Bozie look at me with this disappointed dad face, like I just missed a goal in the Stanley Cup Finals or something, and Gards is shaking his head. It was awful.”

 

It really had been. Mitch had sat there, looking at his teammates while his heart broke because they all had believed he’d be that kind of guy. Nobody had had one shred of doubt that what Matts had been accusing him of had been the absolute truth. Mitch figures that’s what you get when you keep your business to yourself.

 

“So it goes on like this for, like, ten minutes. The door to my room is still open and, at some point, Freddie, Willy and Kappy straddle in.”

 

Ryan looks at Dylan, whom Mitch can see is really trying not to jump up and pull Mitch into a hug like the awesome friend he is.

 

“So Freddie asks Matts about all the chaos, and Matts is all too delighted to fill Freddie and Willy and Kappy in. The vets are still shaking their heads and the rookies are looking at me with a mixture of disgust and awe.”

 

Mitch hadn’t really understood if the awe was because they’d believed he was successfully pulling girls on the road even if he has someone at home, or because they had been impressed he was still standing after all the team’s alternates had lectured him.

 

“At which point,” Mitch continues, “Willy looks at me and says: ‘I thought you’d broken up with your girl’. To which I respond ‘Yep, four weeks and counting.’ And Kappy adds, ‘And she broke up with him, Willy, remember?’”

 

“ _Dude_ ,” Ryan Strome says.

 

“Right,” Mitch says, because there isn’t really much else to say to that. Still, he continues, for completeness’ sake.

 

“So by that point I’m a little fed up with my teammates. Matts at least has stopped screaming once Willy dropped his little bombshell and you can imagine everyone’s face. I really wish I’d had the presence of mind of taking a picture. Now everyone is looking at me like I’m a fucking puppy. Matts’ face crumples and Marty’s eyes go all sad and remorseful in the span of a millisecond.”

 

Mitch pauses, eyes staring in the distance. That had hurt more than anything—that Marty had believed _that_ about Mitch, even for a second. Matts, Mitch could understand. Matts fucks around like women are on the endangered list or something, so Mitch is not surprised he put Mitch in the same box he’s himself. It hurt like hell at the time, and it still hurts now, but Mitch has always known that Matts gets around. So that he’d assumed Mitch could behave like that isn’t particularly surprising.

 

But Marty? Marty should have known better. Sure, Marty doesn't know Mitch better than Matts does. Yet, he knows Mitch in ways Matts never did. So Marty should have known Mitch would never, ever, _ever_ fuck around behind someone’s back—girlfriend, boyfriend, or teammate. Even a fucking gerbil.

 

Everyone should have known better, to be fair, because Mitch is not like that. He’s not a cheater. He’s a good person: a good son, a good brother, a good friend, and a good boyfriend. He knows, because Dylan Strome has spent the past six months repeating this to him every day.

 

“Then Marty lunges forward to hug me, in some belated attempt to console me, I assume,” Mitch continues. “I raised my hands and I stepped back. I looked at Willy and Kappy, who were staring at the rest of the team dismayed, and I asked them if I could stay with them for the night. I didn't want to share with Brownie. Willy nodded and took me away. Kappy came over with all my stuff ten minutes later. Apparently everyone was horrified at what they’d done, by then.”

 

“I bet,” Ryan says, completely engrossed in the story. Dylan had had the same reaction, because apparently Mitch’s life is like a Venezuelan soap opera.

 

“Wait a minute,” Ryan says. “You were in Vegas? Was it before or after your hat trick game?”

 

“Before,” Mitch answers with a proud smile. “Apparently being pissed at my teammates does wonder for my on-ice performance.”

 

“I’ll say,” Ryan whistles.

 

“Anyways,” Mitch continues. “I spent the night with Willy and Kappy, and the rest of the season trying to come to terms with the fallout.”

 

“And you’re no longer friends with Matthews,” Ryan concludes.

 

“Among other things,” Mitch says, because Ryan Strome doesn't need to know the rest.

 

Like the fact that, although Auston Matthews is the biggest problem, it hasn't been difficult to steer away from him—Willy and Kappy are excellent bodyguards. It’s the ‘coming to terms with everyone else’s actions’ that’s been almost impossible. Everyone apologized, even the players who hadn't made it to the Mitch-and-Auston horror show, but Mitch has thus far been unable to forgive them. Which is kind of insane, considering that between December and April, he had had such an amazing season his name was in the talks for the Hart until the top three nominees had been announced.

 

“I’m sorry about all this shit, Marns,” Ryan says.

 

Dylan is finally done with waiting and engages the best-friend protector mode. Mitch can see it coming a mile away, Dylan getting up and wrapping himself around Mitch like that’s gonna stop all the hurt coming Mitch’s way.

 

“Thanks,” Mitch says, his words muffled by Stromer’s shoulder, mercifully covered by the towel—because Mitch loves Dylan Strome, but he doesn't _love_ Dylan Strome.

 

“How do Dyls and Davo figure in all this, though?” Ryan asks.

 

“Davo took Matts’ side,” Stromer mumbles as he pets Mitch’s hair. Mitch knows it’s a gesture meant to reassure Dylan rather than Mitch himself, so he indulges him.

 

“How?” Ryan is clearly astounded by that.

 

“The lines got a bit crossed in the telephone game,” Stromer explains while still holding Mitch. “So he missed the ‘broken-up-with-his-girlfriend-part’ of the equation like Matthews did.”

 

“He left me this blistering message on my voicemail,” Mitch adds, after disentangling himself from Stromer’s embrace and taking a seat on the still-wet lawn chair that started it all.

 

“By the time someone got around explaining everything to him, he was just another person who’d believed I would do something like that. Dyls stopped taking his calls, and we’ve been best friends ever since.”

 

“Without the fucking around,” Stromer specifies, because he’s a jerk who loves to mess around with his brother. It’s the burden all younger brothers have to carry and him and Dylan do their part diligently.

 

“That really sucks, Marns,” Ryan says.

 

“The not fucking around?” Mitch asks with a smirk, because he continues to be a ten year old.

 

Ryan bursts out laughing, which is good; Mitch doesn't want people to feel sorry for him. He just wants them not to think he’s an asshole.

 

“Davo hasn't said anything,” Ryan explains. “So I had not realized something had happened.”

 

“Yeah,” Mitch says. “It’s really not common knowledge. I mean, the team knows, but we kept a lid on it, Dyls and me.”

 

“Your team sucks,” Ryan says, which is kind of sacrilegious, since he’s talking about the Toronto Maple Leafs. Still, he’s not wrong.

 

“Yep,” Mitch says, because it’s hard to be loyal when the fuck-up is so big.

 

Mitch had been able to complete the season successfully only because of Willy and Kappy, which was strange in and of itself. Willy’s Auston’s liney, so Mitch had been surprised by his unwavering support. And Kappy’s Willy’s whatever, so where Willy had gone, Kappy had followed.

 

Freddie and Mac had been super-cool too—Freddie had arrived late enough during the showdown not to be dragged into the mud slinging and Mac had been home recovering from a cold, so he’d had to be told about what had happened. The two goalies had shielded Mitch from the veterans’ attempts to make amends when Mitch wasn't ready, while Willy and Kappy had kept the younger players away. In addition, Willy and Freddie had made a concerted effort to ensure Auston Matthews didn't even think of going within ten feet of Mitch, unless it was something to do with hockey.

 

Mitch had felt bad about Freddie, because he was Auston’s friend before he was Mitch’s, but Freddie had looked at him with his goalie stare and Mitch hadn’t dared expressing his reservations about the whole thing.

 

“What are you gonna do now?” Ryan asks, and that’s the one million dollar question. The thing Mitch and Dylan need to talk about, even if neither of them is particularly interested in touching that with a ten foot pole.

 

Mitch shrugs, like his life isn't hanging in the balance, and then he says, with a nonchalance he doesn't really feel. “I’m thinking of requesting a trade.”

 

It feels wrong, to say that aloud, and Mitch wishes he could regret the words as soon as he’s said them. But the truth of the matter is, he’s been thinking them since mid-March.

 

A warm hand lands on Mitch’s nape and he raises his head to see Stromer looking at him concerned.

 

“Are you sure?” he asks, as if he didn't know about it. They haven’t talked about it, but Dylan had been the one Mitch had called often, usually between the cold hours between 2 and 4AM, when things looked so bleak he felt like giving it all up.

 

“Can’t play with someone I can’t trust,” Mitch says.

 

It really comes down to that, after all. Mitch had believed from the bottom of his heart that his teammates would have his back. That Marty would have his back. That Auston would have his back. That’s at the foundation of hockey. It’s more than being brothers in arms. It’s about knowing without a shred of a doubt that your teammates aren’t going to let anyone mess around with you.

 

Now, Mitch can’t even trust Matts to pass him the salt at the restaurant, never mind the puck when they’re out on the power play. Not to mention, he’s had a first-hand experience about how the team will mess with him first, and not even bother asking questions.

 

“Fuck, Marns, that’s heavy shit,” Ryan says.

 

Mitch snorts, because—understatement of the century. Stromer is still grounding him, though, and that helps.

 

“You have the best brother ever, Ryan,” Mitch says with tears in his eyes. “Dyls hasn't let go for one second. The whole time, he’s been here, even when he was in Arizona.”

 

Mitch sees Stromer smiling sheepishly, and he wishes, not for the first time, he could love him differently.

 

“I’m glad, Marns,” Ryan smiles as well, and pats Mitch on the leg. Then he continues, “Before you go on a shopping expedition with your agent though, have you thought about trying to talk to your teammates again?”

 

Mitch shakes his head.

 

“You really should,” Ryan says gently.

 

“He’s got a point,” Dylan says.

 

“When I thought we were gonna do this, I had only one Strome in mind,” Mitch tries to defend himself from the two-pronged attack.

 

“Plus, you two should talk to Davo,” Ryan adds. Mitch can tell Dylan doesn't like _that_ one bit.

 

“Davo is an asshole,” Stromer says stubbornly, like he’s just stated an unchanging law of physics—something about which he knows next to nothing since, as far as Mitch can remember, Stromer had gotten a D in physics.

 

“Davo is socially inept, which is not necessarily the same thing,” Ryan explains delicately. “And you, more than anyone, should know that, Dyls.”

 

“There is socially inept, and then there is assholery,” Dylan points out primly; so primly, in fact, that Mitch giggles. That gets him a withering glare from Stromer and a wink from Ryan.

 

“Still, you should talk to him.”

 

“We know what he’s gonna say, Ry,” Dylan objects. “He’s going to apologize fifty times, as if he hasn't already left plenty of messages on Mitch’s phone or mine. And then, he’s gonna tell Mitch to let it go, because hockey is a team sport and yada, yada, yada, I’m McJesus and I know what’s best. It’s not something Mitch needs to hear right now.”

 

Ryan frowns at his brother. “Davo’s not like that, Dyls.”

 

“That’s the problem, Ryan,” Mitch interjects. “That’s the whole fucking problem right there. Davo’s not like that. Marty is not like that. Mo is not like that. Matts is not like that. Except,” Mitch pauses to catch his breath. “Except, they’re _all_ like that.”

 

Not for the first time since he’s woken them up with freezing water, Ryan Strome says, “Jesus.”

 

Mitch’s sentiment exactly.

 

**IV. Dylan**

Connor McDavid shows up at the Stromes’ house three days after Dylan and Mitch brought Ryan up to speed. Him and Marns are hanging out in the basement, catching up on _Stranger_ _Things_ , because Marns lives under a rock and he managed to miss both seasons. It’s Matty who takes Davo downstairs, without any warning, since he’s got no clue about what’s happening.

 

Dylan hasn't seen Connor off the ice since the previous summer, when things between them were still good and Dylan was getting ready for camp. He looks good, in that weird ‘I am an athlete and that’s pretty much all I’ve got going on for me’ kind of way.

 

Connor McDavid is not conventionally attractive—his face is too long, his teeth are weird, and he’s still too close to his teenage years to have completely won his ongoing battle against acne—but he has plenty of charisma, that unknown quality that comes with being the best at what he does.

 

“What are you doing here?” Dylan asks him harshly, because he sure as hell hasn't invited him. And as much as he wants Mitch to think very carefully before he tries to get traded to some shitty American team, he certainly doesn't want him more stressed out than necessary.

 

Davo looks at Dylan hesitantly before focusing his attention on Marns, who’s been sitting next to Dylan, a closed-off expression now marring his face. Dylan’s familiar with it—he’s seen it often in post-game interviews since Vegas. It’s unnatural on Marns’ face, because he’s the most open person Dylan’s ever met. He’s easy-going and friendly, loving and generous, and thinks the best of everyone. He was living every GTA boy’s childhood dream until Auston Matthews and the rest of the Leafs crushed his spirit, and Dylan gets so angry when he thinks about it that he wants to kill them all.

 

“I want to talk to Marns,” Davo answers. “I want to talk to both of you,” he adds quickly. Considering Dylan has been the one picking up the pieces of Mitch’s shattered life in the past six months, there is no chance he’s going anywhere anyway, so Davo doesn't need to make him feel welcomed.

 

Dylan looks at Mitch, who looks back without letting any emotion trickle through his mask.

 

“I can kick him out,” Dylan says to Mitch, getting off the couch in preparation for throwing Connor Fucking-Asshole-Friend McDavid out of his house.

 

Davo looks dejected when Dylan says that, not that Dylan is surprised, exactly. Until Davo’s fuck-up in January, when he got told about what had happened with Mitch and misunderstood, Dylan had been Davo’s best and closest friend.

 

They had been lucky, the two of them, Dylan had thought at one time. They’d been best friends since they’d met, and that hadn’t stopped just because Davo had made it to the show two years before Dylan had.

 

It hadn’t stopped when Davo had started to wax poetics about his teammates in general and Leon Draisaitl in particular. Dylan’s never been jealous of the fact that socially-awkward Connor McDavid was making friends. Jesus, the guy needs as many friends as he can get, in Dylan’s opinion.

 

It hadn't stopped when Dylan had made it to the Memorial Cup, a goal Davo had never achieved, or when Davo had won all that fancy hardware last summer.

 

It hadn’t stopped when Dylan had finally started playing for the Coyotes and had such an amazing first half of the season that the Calder discussion about him had started back in December. Fuck, Dylan has more chances of winning the Calder than Connor ever had.

 

No. What had stopped it all had been Connor McDavid believing, for even one second, that Mitch Marner could be a cheating asshole. At the time, Dylan had found that unforgivable, because him and Davo had gone through juniors with Marns, and through the draft, and Connor should have known better. And Dylan is not in love with Mitch Marner—despite what Ryan seems to think, even now that he knows the whole thing. He’s not, because he knows how it feels to be in love, and this is not it. But he _loves_ Mitch Marner with the fire of a thousand suns, and he’s fiercely protective of him. He’s always going to have his back, even when none else apparently does. That’s why his friendship with Davo had gone sour. Because Dylan couldn't get past Davo’s betrayal of Mitch.

 

So now Davo is looking at Dylan forlornly because Dylan’s more than willing to get rid of him. In the exact same way Davo had summarily dismissed Mitch back in January.

 

“Dyls …” Davo says, eyes pleading him to give him a chance. Dylan ignores him blatantly and turns towards Mitch, who is looking at Davo expressionlessly.

 

“Let him have his say, Stromer,” Mitch finally decides, which doesn't surprise Dylan one iota. This is the kind of person Mitch Marner is, which is why it doesn't make any sense that Matthews started spouting vitriol at him back in December.

 

Dylan nods briefly and resumes his seat on the couch next to Marns.

 

Davo looks at the two of them, and then he, too, sits down on the ottoman Dylan’s mom rescued from some yard sale or another in an attempt to make the basement look a bit classier. Because that’s not a lost battle with three hockey players in the house.

 

Once they are all seated, Dylan casts a brief glance at Davo, who is still looking at him like Dylan killed his dog, and then focuses his attention on Mitch.

 

“What do you want, McDavid?” Mitch asks. He’s not harsh or impolite, Dylan notices. But he’s guarded; it’s clear he is weary of Davo’s unexpected visit.

 

“I wanted to apologize,” Davo says unsurprisingly. He’s a good Canadian boy and his parents raised him right.

 

“You already did,” Mitch says tonelessly. “Several times.”

 

“Not in person, Marns,” Davo specifies, which, fair enough. As far as Dylan knows, Marns steered away from Davo as effectively as he avoided Matthews, after everything went down.

 

“Okay,” Marns says.

 

Davo takes it as his cue to continue, and if Dylan didn't know Connor McDavid as well as he does, he’d be impressed. As things are, Davo must have been practicing his speech since the day after him and Marns stopped taking his calls.

 

“I am really sorry, Marns. I should not have said what I did. It was awful and gratuitous and none of my business anyway. And I know you better than that, so I should not have believed for a second what I heard.”

 

It’s a decent speech by Davo’s standard. Short but to the point, addressing all the issues at hand without flourish, and meant to reassure Marns he’s not at fault, Davo is. Dylan is quite unimpressed and, by the look of it, Marns is too.

 

“Okay,” Marns says. “Anything else?”

 

Davo looks at Mitch, then at Dylan, who raises his eyebrows at Davo, and then back at Marns.

 

“N-n-no, no. That was all. I just wanted to apologize,” Davo stammers, which is really kind of funny. Connor McDavid is completely freaked out by Mitch Marner’s lack of reaction.

 

“Okay,” Marns says for the third time.

 

It’s clearly a dismissal, and even socially-awkward Connor McDavid gets that, because he looks at Dylan helplessly, like Dylan’s supposed to dig him out of the grave he so neatly prepared for himself.

 

Dylan looks back, steeling his features so Connor cannot read what’s going through his mind. He’s here for Marns, after all, and not to protect Connor McDavid’s delicate sensibilities when it comes to social interactions. He did it for years, and it certainly didn't help, considering Connor’s reaction to the Vegas disaster.

 

Dylan sees it clearly when Connor realizes he’s not going to get any assist from Dylan, because he squares his shoulders, raises his chin and looks at the two of them.

 

“I _am_ sorry,” he says forcefully, which sounds so much better because it is not rehearsed. “I know I fucked up, Marns, and I know I let you down. Both of you,” Davo adds looking at Dylan. “But you need to get your head out of your ass and start fixing it before it ruins your life.”

 

Dylan smirks. He had $100 on Davo not being able to restrain himself from giving Marns a lecture about this—should Davo ever contact Marns about it. Ryan had been adamant Davo wouldn't do that, the loser. Mitch hadn’t betted, because he doesn't trust his instincts about people anymore and it’s Davo’s fault too.

 

His smile is fleeting, though, and he gets up and says, “You need to leave now.”

 

“Dyls,” Davo begins, but Dylan shakes his head.

 

“You came and said your piece. Now you need to leave.”

 

“This is actually none of your business, Stromer,” Davo says harshly, and Dylan laughs at him, for once truly amused.

 

“Right,” he says, because that’s not true. It’s been Dylan’s business since the moment Mitch called him. Davo doesn't need to know that, however. “It’s still my house, and I don't want you here.”

 

“Stromer …” Mitch interjects.

 

Dylan knows Mitch doesn't want to create any more trouble between Dylan and Davo than there already are, but it’s not like things aren’t bad. Dylan is mad at Davo. It’s going to take more than a pretty apology to Mitch to fix things. Davo needs to _understand_ , and he clearly doesn't.

 

“No, Mitch. He needs to leave. The last thing you need is another fucking lecture about that. He’s going to take their side exactly like he did the first time, and it’s going to wreck you all over again.”

 

“I didn't take their side,” Connor defends himself. “I just didn't have all the information.”

 

“Because Mitch is notoriously one to go and fuck around behind his girlfriend’s back, right, McDavid?” Dylan asks with a snarl.

 

Davo blanches at the vehemence of Dylan’s voice.

 

When Davo says nothing, Dylan nods. “That’s what I thought. Now leave.”

 

Mitch hasn't said anything, his eyes staring in the distance, and Dylan knows that gaze. It means Mitch is not going to eat for three days and he’s going to bury himself in his bed and sleep for 24 hours straight. He _knew_ Mitch wasn't ready to face this bullshit.

 

“Mitchy,” he says soothingly, kneeling before him and grabbing both Mitch’s hands in his.

 

Mitch continues to stare out in space and all of a sudden Dylan is swept by a wave of profound hatred for Connor McDavid, who had to come around and fuck up with Mitch’s head when he was getting better.

 

“Mitchy,” he repeats. “Look at me.”

 

Marns finally does and Dylan brings their foreheads together.

 

“It’s going to be fine, Mitch,” he says reassuringly. He’s been doing this for months now, and he’s a pro. Every time he realizes Mitch is about to shatter in a thousand little pieces, he does his best to keep him together. He’s the only person Mitch trusts unconditionally right now, with the exception of his own family, and Dylan takes this responsibility very seriously.

 

Mitch snaps out of it, blinks rapidly, and then tears start pouring out of his eyes.

 

“It doesn't stop hurting, Dyls,” Mitch whispers brokenly. “When is it gonna stop hurting?”

 

Dylan feels his own eyes fill with tears and pulls Mitch into a bone-crushing hug. At least this time, he’s not in Arizona. When it first happened, Dylan had been so freaked out that he’d almost booked a ticket for Toronto. Luckily, Nylander and Kapanen had stepped in and assured him they would take care of Mitch until Dylan could.

 

Dylan has all but forgotten about Connor until he feels a large hand on his shoulder. He raises his head and sees his former best friend, eyes wide, lips parted, and circuits finally connecting about what this _thing—_ this awful, dreadful thing that happened—has done and continues to do to Mitch Marner every second of every day.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Connor murmurs while Mitch is crying on Dylan’s shoulder.

 

“Everyone, Connor,” Dylan says, a hitch in his voice. “Everyone who was there, without exception. His best friend calling him names and his teammates not defending him, even when they should have known better. Like any of them had any room to pontificate about fucking around to begin with. Since when are hockey players the morality police anyway? Matt Martin grumbling that he expected better from Mitch, and Mo and Gards bitching about Men of Quality. And then you. You’ve known him the longest, Connor. And you believed that crap about him. What possessed you to think that an apology is going to be enough?”

 

Connor lets himself down on the floor and breathes out heavily. Mitch continues to cry on Dylan’s shoulder, and Dylan feels on the brink of tears too, but he makes an effort to keep it together for Mitch’s sake.

 

From the corner of his eyes, Dylan sees Connor shake his head and then get himself on the couch on the other side of Mitch. He passes his long arms around Mitch, who’s snuggled tightly against Dylan, and his left hand lands on Dylan’s nape.

 

“It’s going to be fine, Mitch,” Davo says calmly, even if the sadness in his eyes betrays him. “We’ll make it right,” he insists in his best captain voice.

 

Dylan bristles for a second, because Connor is not Mitch’s captain, and he’s not Mitch’s friend anymore. But Mitch relaxes further in Dylan’s embrace, and his whimpers quiet down. So Dylan lets it go, and allows Connor to be there for Mitch, realizing he, too, might need help if he wants to assist his friend in overcoming all this.

 

**V. Dylan**

They stay like that, cuddled together on the couch, for a long time. Dylan can trace the passing of time from how the light changes through the two small windows of the basement. At some point Ryan comes down, takes a look at the three of them, and disappears back into the house, presumably to ensure nobody disturbs them.

 

Mitch falls asleep, which Dylan is not particularly happy about, because Mitch’s sleeping too much and Dylan doesn't need a degree in psychology to recognize the signs of depression. Yet, he lets him be.

 

Connor stares at Dylan when he’s not looking at Mitch like his heart is being torn out of his chest.

 

After a while Dylan asks, “Do you get it, now?”

 

Connor nods once, humbly, and that does more to soothe Dylan’s bruised heart than any fucking apology Connor prepared before he came over.

 

“Has he been talking to someone about this?” Connor then asks, because he’s not stupid either.

 

“Me, mostly. And Nylander and Andersen a bit.”

 

Connor makes a face, but Dylan shuts that down quickly.

 

“Who is he gonna confide in? The team psychologist? You know they are bound to report this kind of stuff.”

 

“Not the details, they wouldn't,” Connor objects.

 

Dylan rolls his eyes, because Connor McDavid might be hockey smart, but he’s still naïve like a babe in the cradle about the facts of life.

 

“Don't be an idiot. If it messes up with team dynamics it would get back to Babs.”

 

“Mitch had an outstanding sophomore season, Dyls,” Connor protests. “He finished with more points than Auston or Nylander. He was one of the top five scorers in the league from January through March. He got third in the Art Ross race. This thing is clearly not impacting is on-ice performance.”

 

“Are you seriously listening to yourself?” Dylan asks flabbergasted. “This thing is ruining his life. Who the fuck cares about on-ice performance?”

 

Connor’s eyes widen and, after a moment, he nods.

 

“You are right, I’m sorry,” he concedes. “I hadn’t realized it was this bad. Rielly explained, but this is one of those cases where seeing it is believing it.”

 

“Rielly told you?” Dylan asks surprised.

 

Connor grimaces, but nods again. “Yes. I called him and told him what I knew and how Mitch wasn't picking up his phone. I wanted to make sure he was doing okay and the team had his back.”

 

Dylan snorts at that, because _no_.

 

“Yeah,” Connor concedes. “Morgan was reticent at the beginning—team first and all of that—but when he figured I knew everything, he told me how people had behaved and what was going on. I’m so sorry, Dyls.”

 

“Don't apologize to me,” Dylan says.

 

“I’m not apologizing, not exactly,” Connor explains. “But Morgan Rielly wants to fix this. They all do.”

 

“It might be too broken, Connor,” Dylan says softly, dropping a kiss on Mitch’s head. He’s still out for the count, and Dylan doesn't feel confortable discussing this behind his back, even if he’s going to relate the entire convo once Mitch’s awake.

 

Connor’s eyes harden at the affectionate gesture, but Dylan raises his eyebrows challengingly and Connor turns away.

 

“I don't believe that,” Connor then says. “Mitch loves his team, and they love him back. Brownie has been texting me about how sick he feels about the whole thing. I’ve even gotten a phone call from Matt Martin about it. He’s appalled at what he’s done. His girlfriend almost broke up with him because of this. She adores Mitch. They all do.”

 

“It’s not about them, though, is it?” Dylan says sharply. “It’s not about how they feel, or what they think or how much they love Mitch. It’s about how _Mitch_ feels, and what _he_ thinks and who _he_ loves.”

 

Connor’s lips thin and he looks like he just had to suck on a lemon. Dylan can tell he knows Dylan is right. This is about Mitch, not the team. _They_ made it about Mitch, and not the team.

 

Dylan leans back a bit to get some of Mitch’s weight off his legs and the move dislodges the hand Connor still had on his nape.

 

They are quiet for a bit, Mitch still sleeping between them, and Dylan takes his time to catalog the changes in Connor. There aren’t many, despite the time that passed since they saw each other last. Connor is tanned, like he often is in the summer, and his hair is blonder than usual. His blue eyes are wide and alert and his skin is clear for once. He’s thinner than normal—the result of a deep playoff run, although the Oilers choked up in round three. He looks a bit strung out, the tension visible around his eyes and mouth. Dylan doesn't know if it’s because of how the season ended for him or because of what’s been going on with Mitch. Probably a combination of the two.

 

And Dylan misses him, as much as he hates him for what he did to Mitch. And he hates him because he misses him, and he feels guilty about it, because of Mitch. It’s all so fucked up in his head, and he’s just a twenty-one year old hockey player, for fuck’s sake, not a self-help book.

 

“Matts is in love with Mitch,” Davo then says, casually, like he’s talking about the weather.

 

Mitch doesn't react, which means he’s still asleep. Dylan, however, does, his eyes widening and his mouth going slack.

 

“Excuse me?” Dylan says, because he’s convinced he’s heard wrong. Auston Matthews might be a lot of things, but in love with Mitch is not one of them.

 

“You heard me perfectly well,” Connor says challengingly, like advertising Matthews’ supposed feelings is a badge of honor or something.

 

“Who told you that?” he asks Connor.

 

“He did,” Connor answers, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

 

“He told _you_?” Dylan asks.

 

People don't confide in Connor as a rule, unless they know him well. And, sure, Davo and Matts played together on that Team North America social experiment that Bettman had going a couple of years back, but that was that, as far as Dylan knows.

 

“Yes. When I called him to ask him what the hell was going on,” Connor confirms.

 

“Mitch is going to kill you,” Dylan sighs.

 

Connor needs to stop trying to captain the entire 2015 draft class. And the 2016 one too, it seems. Maybe Dylan should sick Eichs on him, though that’s never been particularly effective. For whatever reason, Eichs is a bitch with everyone _except_ Connor McDavid.

 

“Still, it’s true.”

 

“I find that hard to believe,” Dylan says.

 

“Why? You can’t think you’re the only person who loves Mitch,” Connor observes.

 

Dylan lets that one go, because he’s not going to explain to Connor McDavid that it’s not like that. He just finished explaining it to Ryan, and it’s none of their business anyway.

 

“Because he treated Mitch like shit, that’s why. You don't do that to someone you love.”

 

“He was jealous.”

 

Dylan feels like he’s just stepped into an alternate reality, one where Connor McDavid voluntarily talks about feelings, even if they’re not his own.

 

“Of what?” Dylan asks before he can stop himself. This is so ridiculous it’s actually a successful source of distraction from his worry about Mitch’s wellbeing.

 

“Of the girl Mitch was with?” Connor explains. “I had to do a lot of interpreting. Matthews is not the most forthcoming guy when it comes to these things.”

 

“And he thought the best way to show he was in love with Mitch was ripping him a new one in front of their entire team for some cheating that never happened?” Dylan asks incredulous.

 

“Yeah,” Connor smiles ruefully. “That wasn't his brightest idea.”

 

“No shit,” Dylan snorts.

 

“He lashed out, from what I understand,” Connor continues. “Not his proudest moment, but there you have it. He’s been paying the price ever since.”

 

Dylan shakes his head; he really has a hard time believing it.

 

“What about all those girls?” he asks. Matthews is not exactly discriminating when it comes to fucking around, from what Mitch told Dylan last year.

 

“What about them?” Connor replies.

 

Dylan supposes Connor has a point.

 

“Okay, fine. Let’s assume for one moment that I believe you, and that Auston Matthews has a crush on Mitch and he acted like a jerk because he was jealous …”

 

“He’s in love with Mitch. It’s not a crush,” Connor corrects him and Dylan stares at him wordlessly.

 

“He was very particular about this. He didn't want me to think he was messing around with Mitch’s feelings.”

 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dylan hisses, because this is beyond belief.

 

Connor shrugs like it’s no big deal, but Dylan can tell he’s uncomfortable with Dylan’s fury.

 

“Fine,” Dylan concedes. “Whatever, so he’s in love with Mitch. So what?”

 

“I think Mitch needs to talk to his team. And I think he needs to talk to Matts,” Connor says again.

 

Dylan starts to object, but Connor stops him.

 

“No, Stromer,” he says, “hear me out here. I get it. I promise,” he adds when Dylan sends him a dirty glare. “I do get it. This,” he says gesturing towards Mitch, cuddled up against Dylan like a baby koala in his mama’s embrace, “is kind of self-explanatory,”—which, in Dylan’s opinion, goes to show Davo gets precisely nothing—“I didn't before, that’s true, but I do now. But it’s not going to help anyone if Mitch doesn't have a conversation with the team and doesn't let the team apologize properly.”

 

“They apologized properly,” Dylan grunts.

 

“Morgan doesn't think so,” Connor says.

 

“Again with what other people think,” Dylan counters and Connor’s cheeks redden.

 

“Okay, let me rephrase that,” Connor tries. “Morgan and the rest of the team know that what they’ve done and how they handled the aftermath of that night is not enough to make it up to Mitch. They need to heal _as a team_ before each of them can repair their relationship with Mitch. They understand that. They have to do it, and Mitch has to let them do it, for all their sakes. Otherwise there’s not gonna be a team to go back to come October.”

 

Dylan would love to tell Connor that Mitch is thinking of not signing the eight-year, 50 million dollar contract he has been offered by the Leafs. He would love to tell Connor that Mitch is this close to calling his agent so he can speak to the Leafs management about being traded. He would love to, but he doesn't, because it’s Mitch’s career, not Dylan’s, and it’s none of Connor McDavid’s fucking business.

 

Something of what he’s thinking must come across, however, because Connor’s eyes widen.

 

“Tell me he didn't,” he says hoarsely.

 

“I don't know what you’re talking about,” Dylan prevaricates.

 

“Fuck you, Dyls,” Connor chokes out. “Tell me Mitch didn't ask for a trade.”

 

“Not yet,” Mitch mumbles from Dylan’s shoulder. “But if you keep being an obnoxious pain in the ass, McDavid, I’m gonna ask to be traded to Edmonton and then, once I’m there, I’m gonna force McLellan to put me on your wing. And _then_ ,” he says looking at Connor coldly, “I’m gonna wreck your game.”

 

**VI. Dylan**

“Good nap?” Dylan asks Mitch, trying not to smile at Mitch’s admittedly cute threats. He was out for less than an hour and he looks a bit better.

 

“Passable,” Mitch admits. “You need to put more weight on, though. You are still not as confortable as you were back in January.”

 

“You are not asking for a trade,” Connor states, completely missing the point Dylan has been trying to make since Connor arrived at the Stromes’.

 

Dylan glares at Connor, who glares back. Mitch snuggles into Dylan’s embrace and then turns towards Connor, who’s still close enough to Dylan his knees and Dylan’s are touching.

 

“Why not?” Mitch asks.

 

“This is all your fault,” Connor looks at Dylan accusingly.

 

“How is that my fault?” Dylan asks disbelieving.

 

“You should have talked him out of it,” Connor says, and Dylan really doesn't get why Connor is so invested in Mitch staying with the Leafs after the way they treated him.

 

“Why not, Connor?” Mitch asks again, steel in his voice.

 

“It’s your team, Marns,” Connor says. “And you’re theirs. They love you, and they’re sorry. You’ve always dreamed to play in Toronto. The city loves you, the media love you. Management loves you. You can’t leave.”

 

“I don't know that I can stay,” Mitch confesses.

 

“You’ve got to talk to them, Mitch. You’ve got to talk to Matts,” Connor insists.

 

Dylan is about ten seconds away from slapping Connor McDavid on his stupid head and banning him from his house _forever_.

 

“Because he’s in love with me?” Mitch asks. “Is that why?”

 

Connor looks at Dylan in astonishment. Dylan looks back with a smile. Never underestimate Mitch’s sneakiness—he’s had years to hone his skills to survive in the NHL. It’s not so shocking he pretended to be asleep for part of Dylan and Davo’s heart-to-heart.

 

“No,” Connor admits, albeit reluctantly. “That’s something that might explain Matts’ behavior, but it has no bearing on the rest. But Mitch, even if you actually decide you want to leave, you should give yourself the opportunity of clearing the air. Otherwise this thing is going to follow you whether you end up in Tampa Bay or Dallas.”

 

Dylan ultimately agrees with Davo’s argument, so he keeps his mouth shut on this.

 

Mitch turns his face towards Dylan. His eyes are clear but Dylan can see the hesitation lurking in them.

 

Dylan sees Connor turn away, like he can’t stand seeing Mitch and Dylan like this.

 

“Why are you here, exactly?” Mitch asks.

 

Connor looks at Mitch, and then at Dylan, wordlessly.

 

Dylan stares at Davo, and waits patiently for whatever answer he is going to give.

 

“I told you …” Connor begins.

 

“No,” Mitch interrupts him.

 

Dylan hides a smile—Connor hates being interrupted, and Mitch knows that very well.

 

“I understand you wanted to apologize, and clearly you wanted to convince me to talk to Mo. But why are you _here_? Why at the Stromes’ and not at my place in Toronto or at my parents’? Why wait until I’d be with Dyls?”

 

Connor goes an unflattering shade of red—not Jack Eichel unflattering, but close enough.

 

“What do you think?” he asks rudely, sending Dylan a withering glance. Dylan looks at him in surprise, because it’s not like it’s Dylan’s fault, and Connor’s never rude unless he can’t avoid it.

 

Mitch peels away from Dylan and gets into Connor’s face. Dylan is worried for a second Mitch might go too far, to be completely honest.

 

“I think you should worry about your own barn, Davo, before you try to clean up mine,” Mitch answers enigmatically.

 

Dylan is not stupid, however. Young, dumb, and full of hot air, but not stupid.

 

“Don't rile him up, Marns,” he says, dragging him back to him. “You know he doesn't deal well with his feelings.”

 

“He seems to be doing perfectly fine with mine, though,” Mitch mutters.

 

Dylan snickers and Connor sends him another withering glance.

 

“I’m still here, you know,” Connor says sullenly.

 

Dylan rolls his eyes.

 

“Okay, fine,” Connor says. “I wanted to see Stromer, too. It’s been bad enough once you stopped talking to me,” he adds addressing Mitch, “but once Dylan cut me off too, it became unbearable.”

 

“You were a fucking asshole, Davo,” Dylan tells him.

 

“I know, I know,” Connor says quickly. “But it doesn't mean it wasn't hard for me, too. I lost you both in the span of a day, and I didn't know what the fuck was going on. And once I knew, neither of you was picking up the phone. Drai threatened to strangle me with my socks so many times I thought I’d have to stop wearing them.”

 

“Tell me he doesn't know,” Dylan says, barely containing his fury. If Connor has spilled the beans, his socks are the least of his worries.

 

“Of course he doesn't. I told no one,” Connor retorts offended. He looks so much like a puffed up cat that Dylan can’t contain his laughter.

 

Dylan sees Mitch smile too, and Connor seems relieved about that.

 

“Okay,” Mitch resumes. “So you missed Dyls, and you missed me, and you are very sorry about the whole thing, even if it’s too much for us to expect you to mind your business and stop trying to boss us around. And you think I should talk with my team, not ask for a trade, and then talk to Matts about his feelings for me. Not necessarily in that order. Does that sum it up?”

 

Dylan can see Connor run through the list of things Mitch just mentioned, before nodding.

 

“I also want to be friends again, Marns,” Connor adds.

 

Dylan can tell that’s important for Connor. And that’s really not surprising to Dylan. After all, it was Dylan and Mitch who’d cut Connor off, not the other way around.

 

Mitch runs a hand through his hair and gets off the couch.

 

“I need to piss and to drink something,” he says. “Don't toss him out, Stromer. We might have some use for him yet.”

 

Dylan sees Connor almost choke on his own spit as Mitch makes his way upstairs, presumably to ransack the well-stocked refrigerator in the kitchen.

 

“What did he mean by that?” Connor asks slightly offended.

 

“Not sure,” Dylan admits with a smirk. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

 

“I thought you’d become an expert on all things Mitch Marner,” Connor mocks him, and it’s not nasty, per se, but it’s not nice either.

 

“Jealousy doesn't become you, Davo,” Dylan remarks.

 

“I’m not jealous!”

 

“You are super-jealous. And you are also a shitty liar. Always have been.”

 

“You cut me out, Dyls,” Connor accuses him.

 

And there it is: the reason why Connor came _here._ Dylan should thank Mitch for giving the two of them some space to clear the air.

 

“You were an asshole, Davo,” Dylan says again, since it bears repeating.

 

“You still should not have cut me out,” Connor insists. “I’m your friend, too.”

 

“You didn't see what it did to him, Connor,” Dylan says, without trying to be gentle about it. “What happened there earlier, what you saw? That was every day, Connor. Every day after Vegas. Every. Fucking. Day. And I wasn't _there._ I was stuck in fucking Arizona or traveling with the ‘Yotes, and there was no chance the two of us could even be in the same time zone for the next month. _And I wasn't there._ ”

 

Dylan takes a deep breath, because now that he’s started, he knows he’s not going to stop. “He called me in tears, and told me what happened. And then he went and scored a hat trick, and then he called me that night. He should have been out celebrating with his teammates. Instead he was sitting on the bathroom’s floor of Willy and Kappy’s bedroom, crying his heart out. He told me what had happened _again_ , just in case I’d not understood perfectly well the first time around. Rinse and repeat. He didn't eat for a week, didn't sleep decently for almost a month. He was being pushed by Rielly and Matthews to talk it out, and I didn't know what to do to help. And like this wasn't enough to deal with, he gets a phone call from _you_.”

 

Connor cringes, and Dylan thinks _Good,_ before resuming his tale.

 

“I’m just thankful it went to voicemail, Connor, because I don't know what would have happened if he’d talked to you. I know you can be an ass when you get on your high horse. When I heard what you’d done, I hated you so much I wanted to kill you.”

 

Connor hides his face in his hands at that, and Dylan still thinks _Good,_ even if he’s not getting much pleasure out of yelling at Connor like he should have done six months ago.

 

“So, yes. I fucking cut you out. You deserved it. And I get that you made a mistake, and that you have apologized and all of that. But _you weren’t there_ when Mitch went to pieces. I didn't have the time to explain to you the basic rules of friendship when I was so busy trying to make sure he was going to take care of himself.”

 

“I could have helped, Dyls,” Connor murmurs.

 

“You helped enough,” Dylan says scathingly.

 

“No, Dyls,” Connor insists. “I could have helped _you_ keeping _him_ together. It’s what friends are supposed to do.”

 

“I managed on my own just fine,” Dylan says, because he did. It might not have been easy, and it certainly wasn't pretty, but Dylan kept Mitch together and kept himself together.

 

“You weren’t supposed to do it on your own,” Connor snarls.

 

“And you weren’t supposed to treat him like trash so that I had to do it on my own,” Dylan snarls back.

 

“I didn't treat him like trash, Jesus, Stromer,” Connor says, and fine, Dylan might have exaggerated a bit.

 

“Still,” Dylan mumbles.

 

“Okay,” Connor says, scrubbing his face with his hand. “Okay,” he repeats.

 

Dylan looks at him, and Connor squares his shoulder. “I’m here now. Let me help you. Let me help both of you.”

 

Dylan doesn't say anything, because as much as he wants to forgive Connor, as much as he’s missed him, even if he was the one to cut him out, this isn’t just his decision to make.

 

“Please, Dyls,” Connor continues. “I don't mean to sound patronizing, but the two of you are too close to this to be able to make rational decisions. If that is how Marns is doing now, it’s going to take a while to fix things. And it’d be easier if you two weren’t on your own.”

 

“Ryan knows,” Dylan admits reluctantly. “And Mitch’s family.”

 

“That’s a start,” Connor smiles encouragingly. “Let me help too. I can sit down with Marns and Morgan. I can talk to Mitch when you’re not around. I can talk to you when Mitch is not around. Just because you guys are together, it doesn't mean you have to do it by yourself. And if it’s really in Mitch’s best interest to leave the Leafs, then I’ll do my best to convince Chiarelli to take him on.”

 

“If he’s going somewhere, it’s Arizona,” Dylan says, because there is no way he’s letting Mitch go to Edmonton’s wasteland. Desert for desert, it might as well be Glendale’s.

 

“Fine,” Connor concedes.

 

“And we’re not together,” Dylan adds, because he _is not stupid._

That surprises Connor, more than Dylan thought it would.

 

“You’re not?”

 

“Why does everyone think we’re together?”

 

“Everyone?” Connor inquires.

 

“You. Ryan,” Dylan explains.

 

“Maybe it’s because you’re all over each other,” Connor comments.

 

“We’ve always been like that. Well, for the past few years, at least,” Dylan says.

 

“I guess,” Connor says, but he doesn't look convinced.

 

“You guess what?” Marns asks as he makes his way back to the basement, a bag of pretzels in one hand and a six-pack in the other. “By the way, Ryan went home and your parents are eating out, so we are on our own. Matty’s at the McLeods’”

 

Dylan grabs one of the beers and downs half of it quickly.

 

“Eat something,” Mitch says passing him the pretzels. “You’re gonna get drunk.”

 

“That’s why,” Connor says a propos of nothing, and Dylan turns to stare at him.

 

“That’s why what?”

 

“That’s why Ryan and I think you guys are together,” Connor explains, waving his hand at what, presumably, is Mitch and Dylan’s practiced ease with each other.

 

“You think we’re together?” Mitch asks raising his eyebrows. Then, he tells Dylan, “Are they handing out drugs together with nutrition advice up in Edmonton, you think?”

 

“I doubt it,” Dylan says, after popping three pretzels in his mouth. He’s starving, all of a sudden.

 

“I mean, you’re hot and everything,” Dylan continues, while chewing obnoxiously in a way he knows drives Connor mad. “You know, you’ve got the cute puppy look down to a tee.”

 

“Fuck you, Stromer,” Mitch laughs, plopping himself on the ottoman before Dylan and Connor. He passes a beer to Connor, who takes it silently while looking at Dylan and Mitch with a frown.

 

“You guys aren’t together,” he repeats.

 

“Nope,” Mitch confirms, because Dylan’s reassurance isn’t enough, clearly. Davo can be so fucking stupid sometimes. And definitely jealous. Connor can deny it all he wants, but Dylan knows better.

 

“Which is really besides the point anyway,” Dylan adds. “Because you were still a fucking asshole.”

 

“Has he apologized again?” Mitch asks Dylan.

 

“I’m still here,” Connor says for the second time since he’s arrived.

 

And, see, that’s why Dylan’s been friend with Connor McDavid for so long: the guy is such a little diva, Dylan’s afraid that, once people figure that out, they’re gonna unload him like a sack of potatoes. So Dylan has to stick around.

 

“Yeah,” Dylan confirms, ignoring Connor.

 

“Are we forgiving him?” Mitch asks, looking at Connor steadily.

 

Dylan can see Connor’s breath hitch, and he feels a pang of remorse, very small to be fair, for putting his former best friend through the grinder.

 

“I don't know,” Dylan says Mitch. “Are we?”

 

“Mmm,” Mitch hums, sipping on his beer. “I mean, he came all the way here to talk to us.”

 

“I live half an hour away, Marns,” Connor huffs.

 

“Not helping your case, buddy,” Dylan comments, and Connor shuts up.

 

“And he apologized profusely,” Mitch continues.

 

“Twice,” Dylan adds.

 

“And he wants to help,” Mitch says.

 

“Though he wants you to go play in Edmonton,” Dylan tells him.

 

“What?” Mitch looks shocked. “Ew, no, no way. If I ask for a trade, it’s not going to be to fucking Alberta, are you kidding?”

 

“It’s better than Glendale,” Connor scoffs.

 

Dylan hides a laugh, because Connor is so inherently Canadian he can’t help it.

 

“I’m not playing with _you_ ,” Mitch says haughtily. “I was thinking Buffalo, so I can kick the Leafs’ ass on a regular basis.”

 

“Eichs’s gonna like that,” Dylan says, trying to rile Connor up. Connor doesn't rise to the bait, though.

 

“This is a moot point anyway,” Connor says. “You’re not asking for a trade until you talk to Mo and the team.”

 

Dylan rolls his eyes; the captain mode was disengaged for a grand total of a ten minutes. It might be a new record.

 

“So,” Mitch interjects. “We’re forgiving him, though he’s paying for dinner when we’re out until the Canucks win the cup.”

 

“Deal,” Connor says very quickly—too quickly, Dylan thinks. Maybe he has some advanced scouting reports about the Canucks’ chances for next season.

 

“And we’re not talking about this for the next 48 hours,” Mitch adds.

 

“What?” Connor says. “Why?”

 

“Because Mitch needs a break, Davo,” Dylan explains gently.

 

Jesus, what the fuck are Nugent-Hopkins and Draisaitl doing up in Edmonton? They’re supposed to explain Davo the basic rules of societal living—they promised Dylan; he made them swear on the Conn Smythe, especially after Hallsy got traded.

 

Mitch sends Dylan a grateful look and Dylan smiles at him.

 

“Are you sure you guys are not together?” Connor asks. “Because you’re all, like, lovey-dovey.”

 

‘Lovey-dovey?’ Dylan mouths.

 

“Yes, Davo,” Mitch explains patiently. “We are positive we’re not together. Our dicks never touched, our lips never locked, and our relationship is completely platonic.”

 

“There was that one night during the combine, though,” Dylan adds, just to mess with Connor.

 

“ _What?_ ” Connor asks outraged. Mitch laughs and gets up from the ottoman. He drops on top of Connor, who flails before managing to catch Mitch.

 

“You are such a jealous ass,” Mitch says fondly. “Don’t mess it up again, McDavid,” he adds then, very seriously. “You only get one chance.”

 

Dylan sees the tension leaving Connor’s body. He positively deflates.

 

“I promise, Marns,” Connor says, hugging Mitch tight. Mitch returns the hug.

 

Dylan looks upon them with a smile, and then winks at Connor, who smiles back.

 

**VII. Mitch**

 

Davo is pretty good at giving Mitch space, for which Mitch is thankful. He really needs it, especially after Davo’s revelations about Matts’ supposed feelings.

 

For 48 hours, Davo lets it be, and, as far as Mitch can determine, he spends time catching up with Stromer.

 

Stromer doesn't leave Mitch alone, however, and Mitch appreciates that too. He gets Snaps and texts and stupid videos about everything under the sun.

 

“Davo’s so jealous he’s going to start spitting fire soon,” Dylan tells him laughingly over the phone, thirty-six hours into the grace period Mitch negotiated.

 

“Davo is a moron,” Mitch answers.

 

“I know. I told him I can be best friends with both of you, but he doesn't believe me,” Dylan faux-pouts.

 

“Has he been good?” Mitch inquires.

 

He’s not overly concerned—he’s adult enough to realize that his reaction to Davo’s misunderstanding might have been a bit out of proportions. Stromer indulged him, because Mitch needed him to, but Mitch never really wanted their friendship to be irrevocably damaged on his account. So he’s happy that Davo’s back in his life. And in Stromer’s.

 

“He’s fine,” Stromer reassures him. “Just his usual intense self.”

 

“And has he been good to _you_?” Mitch insists, because sometimes Stromer needs to be drawn diagrams.

 

“Yes, Marns,” Dylan says with a sigh. “It’s all good. We talked two days ago and we’ve been talking ever since. It’s gonna be fine between us.”

 

“Good,” Mitch states. “Though I don't think he wants to be just best friends anymore,” he adds, because he never met a hornet nest he doesn't want to stir.

 

“Then he can ask, Marns,” Dylan says firmly. “He could have asked at any point in the past five years.”

 

“I don't think he had incentive enough until this past winter.”

 

Dylan hums, but says nothing else about it. After a few more chirps and a promise to see each other tomorrow, he hangs up.

 

Mitch is not really privy to the Dylan-and-Davo relationship agreement, because it’s way above his pay grade, and he wasn't around when it was signed—in blood, apparently because Davo is dramatic like that. But he has eyes, and he’s seen Dylan going from girl to girl, with the occasional boy thrown in for variety, while Connor stuck to the same person for years. The parallels with his situation, and Matts’, haven’t escaped Mitch.

 

Mitch had been surprised and somewhat happy when he’d heard that Davo was newly single, but the news has occupied a very small portion of his brain functions, what with everything that had been going on at the time. Dylan had hardly commented upon it, since one day Connor was his best friend, and the next he was out of their lives.

 

Now, however. Now Mitch thinks the two of them might have a chance.

 

Mitch knows Stromer has missed Davo something fierce. For fuck’s sake, Mitch has missed Davo, and he’s not in love with the guy. And after the conversation the three of them had the other day, Mitch knows Davo had missed Dylan too. Desperately, if Mitch read Davo correctly.

 

So, Mitch hopes the six-month silence is going to help the two of them figuring their shit out. Then at least some good would come out of this mess. And Mitch is not a jealous dick like Davo is. He’s perfectly capable of sharing his best friend with other people, thank you very much.

 

The whole Matthews-situation, however, is a completely different story. If Mitch didn't know Davo as well as he does, he wouldn't believe him. Connor McDavid is not, however, in the habit of telling tales about this kind of stuff. So if he claims Auston Matthews confessed his undying love for Mitch, then Auston Matthews is probably in love with Mitch.

 

Which leaves Mitch with an even bigger problem than ever before.

 

Mitch doesn't do guys—at least, he never has. He’s always had girlfriends, and he’s never been attracted to a guy in his life. He can objectively recognize that a guy—say William Nylander—is more attractive than another—say Connor McDavid. But that is as far as it goes, and he knows people, like, for instance, Stromer, who’d disagree with his assessment. There’s no accounting for taste.

 

Mitch knows Auston Matthews doesn't do guys either, because in the two years they’ve known each other, Matts has always picked up girls, sometimes at an alarming pace. Granted, Mitch hasn’t kept up with Auston Matthews’ sexual escapades since December, but before then it was a pretty impressive revolving door that Matts had installed by his bedroom.

 

Mitch also knows that the relationship he had with Matts up to that night in Vegas hadn’t been as ‘normal’—whatever normal is—as the friendship he’s had with other guys in the past. Mitch might have technically been closer to Marty, also because they’d double-dated often—which was the reason why Marty hadn’t known about the break-up. Marty and Sydney had liked Mitch’s ex, and Mitch had felt bad about that. Yet, him and Matts had had something different. Something more, and so uniquely theirs Mitch had never been quite able to explain it to anyone.

 

Anyway, Mitch knows his friendship with Matts was weird—what with the matching outfits, the singing on the bench, the carpooling to work, the social media shenanigans and all the other activities they’d managed to throw in for the year and a half they’d been codependent assholes. Up until Vegas, him and Matts so close Mitch had had troubles figuring out where Matts ended and he began. All of this while they were both with other people—casually or not.

 

Mitch also knows that there had been a few times, especially during their rookie season, when he’d looked at Auston Matthews and he’d thought ‘What If’. It had come at odd moments, and usually when neither Matts nor he had been at their best, because Mitch is not a cheater. It had intrigued him as much as it had scared him, this pseudo-curiosity about his best friend on the team. But Mitch had had a girlfriend, and he’d been happy in his skin and his life. So he’d let that go.

 

For sure, he’d never for a second thought that Matts might have some kind of unrequited crush on him. Like, never. Matts hadn’t been pining—and Mitch knows how to recognize pining, Stromer has given him a detailed course on the topic. And Matts had been picking girls up left and right. He had, in fact, done so on that same night when he’d read Mitch the riot act for cheating on his girlfriend. Which had struck Mitch a bit hypocritical in hindsight, because, he’d thought Matts had someone back in Arizona. Not that Mitch had cared one way or another, since Matts’ girls did not interfere in their Marns-and-Matts time, exactly like Mitch’s girlfriend hadn’t.

 

So the whole “Auston Matthews is in love with Mitch” bomb that Davo had dropped in Mitch’s lap had left Mitch somewhat astonished. So astonished he wants to pick up the phone and call Matts and asks him what the fuck is going on. That’s not the best strategy, however, considering how he’s currently not on speaking terms with Matts.

 

That doesn't mean he cannot ask someone else, however. Which is why he doesn't even bother to check the time before he calls Willy.

 

His friend picks up after thirty seconds. “You better be dying somewhere in the middle of Canada, Marns. It’s three o’clock in the morning,” Willy grumbles.

 

“Since when do you go to sleep with the chickens, Willy? Give me a fucking break,” Mitch says.

 

“Fuck off,” Willy says, and Mitch can hear some rustling, which means Willy is in bed and was probably asleep. “I’ve been up till five for the past three days. It’s been messing with my training.”

 

“It’s June, Willy. It’s too early to start training.”

 

“You don't know my dad,” Willy replies.

 

“Sorry,” Mitch says.

 

“No, you’re not,” Willy responds.

 

“No, I’m not,” Mitch admits.

 

“What’s up?” Willy asks.

 

“Did you know Matts’s in love with me?” Mitch goes for the jugular. If someone knows the truth, it’s either Willy or Freddie, and Mitch isn’t crazy enough to call a goalie who is probably in Sweden enjoying a much deserved vacation with his family.

 

Willy is quiet for a while; so long, in fact, that Mitch thinks he has hung up.

 

“Who told you that?” Willy finally asks.

 

“Davo,” Mitch answers truthfully.

 

“Davo? McDavid?” Will repeats incredulously. “I thought you weren’t talking to him.”

 

“Yeah,” Mitch confirms. “There’s been a slight change on that front.”

 

“Good,” Willy says. As supportive as he’s been with Mitch’s situation and Mitch’s decisions, Mitch knows Willy hated to see Mitch cutting his friends off.

 

“Yeah, it is,” Mitch admits.

 

“And how does he know, anyway?”

 

“Matts told him, apparently. Did you know?” Mitch presses.

 

“Not until after,” Willy admits.

 

“Jesus,” Mitch breathes out, because it’s one thing to hear it from Davo, who’s not on the team, but it’s another to have confirmation from Willy, who’s friends with Auston.

 

“Yeah. Matts kind of went to pieces too, there, for a bit. I’m sorry,” Willy is quick to add. “I don't mean to make you feel bad or anything.”

 

“I know, Willy,” Mitch reassures him.

 

“Okay. Anyway, he kind of lost it, and I’ve been his friend for so long, so he told me.”

 

“That doesn't make any sense, Willy,” Mitch remarks, because the whole thing really doesn't.

 

“Why not? You guys have always been weird about each other,” Willy comments.

 

“Yeah, okay, but never like that. I mean, we don't even live together like you and Kappy.”

 

“Me and Kappy are not together,” Willy says.

 

“That’s kind of my point, Willy. You and Kappy are so weird about each other it’s unnatural, and you’re not together. Why would me and Matts be any different?”

 

“Okay, fine,” Willy says with a sigh. “Still, I wasn't particularly surprised about it when Matts told me. Kappy wasn't either.”

 

“Kappy knows too?”

 

“Of course he does. You know we don't keep secret from each other.”

 

“And you never thought of informing me of all this?” Mitch asks, letting go for the moment of the fact that Willy and Kappy behave like a married couple even if Willy is happily single and Kappy is happily coupled.

 

“Would it have helped?” Willy asks shrewdly.

 

“Probably not,” Mitch acknowledges.

 

“Yeah,” Willy says. “I didn't think it would. Plus, it really wasn't my secret to tell. I’m surprised Davo told you, to be honest. Doesn't seem like something he’d do.”

 

“He didn't, exactly,” Mitch admits.

 

“What do you mean?” Willy asks, and, by the time Mitch is done recounting the events of two days ago, Willy is laughing.

 

“You’re such a sneaky bastard.”

 

“I don't know what you’re talking about,” Mitch states primly.

 

“Yeah, right,” Willy says. “Anyway, yes, Matts’s in love with you. Or at least he was back in May. And that’s all you’re gonna get out of me.”

 

“May was, like, three weeks ago,” Mitch observes.

 

“Which means, chances are Matts is still in love with you,” Willy says, like he doesn't have a care in the world.

 

“Okay,” Mitch breathes deeply. “Okay.”

 

“You need to talk to him,” Willy tells him.

 

“Yeah,” Mitch agrees. “That’s becoming kind of obvious.”

 

“And you need to talk to the team,” Willy adds.

 

“I’m working on that,” Mitch confesses.

 

“Thank Christ,” Willy exclaims. “I can be there whenever you need me to. Just don't do anything hasty, Marns.”

 

“Don't worry,” Mitch hastens to reassure him, because Willy is clearly worried Mitch’s going to jump ship.

 

“You haven’t signed your contract. I know, because Auston got his and he signed it. Management wants to lock the two of you down before free agency begins. Don't think I don't know what’s going through your head.”

 

“Just give me some time, Willy,” Mitch sighs. “Davo and Stromer are helping. I’ll figure it out.”

 

“Talk to Matts,” Willy repeats. “And call Mo, too. He’s gonna be named captain, so he knows what’s going on with the contracts.”

 

“Of course he does,” Mitch laughs, grateful Lamoriello got his head out of his ass and finally picked someone to captain the Leafs.

 

“I’ll be there whenever you need me, Mitch,” Willy assures him. “Kappy and I got your back. And Freddie and Mac too. And the rest of the team will again. Just talk to them.”

 

Mitch’s eyes fill with tears and he’s a bit choked up when he says, “Thanks, Willy.”

 

“Whatever, dude,” Willy says, because he doesn't do feelings unless he must. “I need to get my beauty sleep, otherwise my brother and my dad are going to kick my ass later. Let me know what’s up.”

 

“Will do,” Mitch promises before hanging up.

 

Afterwards, Mitch sits in his living room while darkness descends and thinks about his next move. He needs to figure things out with Matts before he can decide what to do with the rest of the team—for all of Davo’s pretty speech about healing as a team, the bulk of the hurt came from Auston.

 

Social media aren’t a lot of help in informing Mitch of Matts’ whereabouts, so he resigns himself to make another call.

 

Davo picks up immediately. “What’s wrong, Marns?” he asks fretfully. Clearly he’s decided to adopt Stromer’s approach and become uber-protective now that they’re talking again.

 

“Do you know where Matts is?” Mitch asks. He could call Willy back, but Davo is resourceful and he gets results fast.

 

“Give me half an hour,” Davo tells him before disconnecting the call.

 

Mitch’s phone rings soon thereafter, and Mitch rolls his eyes. It took Stromer only 0.8 seconds to call him.

 

“Does Davo have you on speed-dial?” Mitch asks.

 

“I _am_ with Davo. What the fuck, Marns?” Stromer says.

 

“It needs to happen, Stromer,” Mitch says.

 

“You were crying your heart out two days ago,” Stromer observes.

 

“Exactly,” Mitch agrees. He was crying yesterday too, but today has been a good day, even if the 48 hours are almost up.

 

Stromer doesn't say anything else, and Mitch doesn't either, but it’s not a tense silence. They spend the next twenty minutes like this, on the line, waiting for Davo to figure out where the fuck Auston Matthews is.

 

“Davo’s back,” Stromer says, and then Davo’s on the line.

 

“Matthews is at home in Arizona, Mitch,” Davo explains.

 

“That’s not very convenient,” Mitch comments.

 

“Give me the phone,” Mitch overhears Stromer says, and after a few second, Mitch is on speakers.

 

“Don't even think about going down there,” Stromer orders him.

 

“It didn't even cross my mind,” Mitch reassures him. “If we’re doing this, he’s the one who’s travelling.”

 

“Just tell him to come up here,” Davo suggests. “It’s not like he’s not going to.”

 

“Right,” Mitch acknowledges the validity of the suggestion. “Okay, I’ll send him a text. Don't freak out,” he says before either Stromer or Davo can say anything. “I’ll keep you in the loop, but I might need to do this by myself.”

 

Davo grumbles, but Stromer acquiesces quickly enough, and Mitch knows he’s going to keep Davo on a leash, at least for a while.

 

Mitch hangs up without saying goodbye—his 48 hours are almost up, Davo is going to descend on him like a pack of wolves, Stromer at his heels—and sets out to compose a message for Matts.

 

After thinking it over for a while—and regretting not having paid enough attention to Ms. Trevor, who in hindsight was an awesome English teacher—Mitch settles for the truth.

 

_I need to talk to you before I decide what to do about my contract. Can we meet?_

It takes Matts two minutes and twenty-eight seconds to respond. Mitch gets nine texts in rapid succession, and it’s so out of character for Matts that Mitch can’t help but smile.

 

_What do you mean about the contract?_

_And of course we can meet._

_Wherever you like._

_Though I’m at home right now. In AZ. So I might need some time to get where you are._

_I’m assuming you’re in Toronto?_

_I can be up there tomorrow or Wednesday at the latest._

_You are in Toronto, right?_

_If you’re not, let me know where you want to meet._

_And when too._

It’s easier than Mitch thought to write back, although the end result is oddly formal.

 

_Yes, I’m in Toronto. You don't need to rush here, but it’d be good if we talk in the next week or so. I want to get this settled as soon as possible. Just let me know when you’re in town and we can set something up._

Matts’ answer comes five minutes later.

 

_I’ll be there the day after tomorrow. I got an open ticket, so I can meet you whenever._

Mitch thinks about it for a second. He doesn't want to rush into this, but if he’s staying with the Leafs, he needs to talk to Matts, and then to Mo and the team.

 

_Thursday or Friday is good for me. I’ve been mostly staying at my place when I'm not at Stromer’s. We can meet at mine or yours._

_Thursday at yours is fine_ , Matts responds quickly, and Mitch is smart enough to understand Matts is trying by giving him home-field advantage.

 

_Okay,_ Mitch says. _Come by whenever._

_I’ll text you when I’m on the way_ , Matts promises.

 

The whole thing is remarkably painless, and Mitch is more surprised about the proper grammar and lack of abbreviations him and Matts have managed in the texts than he is about the speed with which they were able to arrange a meeting.

 

Thursday is three days away. It’s plenty of time for Mitch to figure out what he’s going to say.

 

**VIII. Mitch**

Thursday is today, and there hasn't been enough time for Mitch to figure out what he’s going to say. That’s because, as Mitch had feared, Davo had descended on him like a hungry wolf and started his campaign to convince him not to ask for a trade.

 

Stromer has done his best to contain Davo, but Davo can be quite overwhelming. It doesn't really help that Davo feels like he’s got tons of things he has to be forgiven for, so he has decided to appoint himself Mitch’s guardian and has been fretting like a mother hen. Stromer thinks it’s cute. Stromer’s in love with Davo; Mitch isn’t and Davo is many things, but cute is not one of them.

 

Mitch is therefore not really prepared to meet with Auston, who’s on his way to Mitch’s place _right now_. Because he wants them to be able to talk on equal footing, and doesn't give a rat’s ass about home-field advantage, Mitch is waiting for him outside. They can drive to the Leafs’ training facility and talk there—it’s not like there isn’t plenty of space.

 

Mitch’s phone buzzes and it’s Stromer.

 

_Is your boy there yet?_

Mitch rolls his eyes, because Stromer is way too invested in the whole thing.

 

_I thought ur my boy,_ he writes back.

 

_Always, Mitchy. Still, Davo wants to know._

_Davo needs a life_ , Mitch shots back, because Davo really does. Or he needs to get laid. Stromer should take care of that. _Go keep him entertained._

_On it,_ Stromer answers.

 

When Mitch raises his head from his phone, Auston’s car on the other side of the street, and Auston is walking towards him, his expression closed off.

 

Mitch straightens and walks to meet him.

 

“Hi,” he says, extending his hand. He doesn't want to do bro-hugs just yet, and not doing anything seems impolite.

 

“Hi, Marns,” Auston says, shaking Mitch’s hand awkwardly. It’s so _not them_ that Mitch wants to cry, and they’ve not even gotten to the talking.

 

“I thought we’d go to the training center?” Mitch says.

 

Matts nods and soon thereafter they’re on the way.

 

It’s weird, because, for so long, it was Mitch driving then around. Then, when Mitch stopped talking to Matts outside of work, it was just Mitch driving himself.

 

Matts drives in silence. He doesn't try to make conversation, and Mitch follows his lead for now. The radio is off, which makes matters even more awkward, but it’s not like Mitch was expecting today to be sunshine and unicorns.

 

They reach the Leafs’ facilities in less than half an hour. Once they’re out of the car, Mitch takes them through the tunnels into the bowels of the building, until they get to a relatively deserted area near the locker rooms. There is a lounge, which is normally used by the coaching staff. No one is around now, however, so Mitch gets in, waits for Matts to follow, and then closes the door. Nobody needs to overhear them.

 

Matts takes a seat at the table, and Mitch sits across from him. They stare at each other for a few minutes and Mitch is suddenly overcome with a wave of longing—for what they were, for how well they got along, for the beautiful hockey they played.

 

Since it doesn't look like Matts is going to do much of anything, it’s up to Mitch to tip the scales. He takes a fortifying breath, tries to calm down his racing heart, and gives his speech.

 

“I’ve been asked to sign with the Leafs for the next eight years,” he begins. Matts should know about this—at least through the grapevine. “Eight years after the ELC is up, I mean. This would take me through the 2026-27 season.”

 

Matts nods, “I figured. Willy got the same offer last year.”

 

Mitch is smart enough to read between the lines: Matts’ contract is different. It can't be longer, but it's certainly more profitable. Mitch doesn't give a flying fuck about how much money Auston makes, to be honest. Though, he is really curious to see who’s going win in the Matthews-Eichel-McDavid race of who’s got more money in the bank by the time they’re twenty-five. It’s disturbingly fascinating, how much money management is willing to throw at franchise players.

 

“I know,” Mitch admits. “I also know you signed yours. I don't know for how long, and I don't care for how much. But let’s not kid ourselves here,” Mitch continues, preventing Auston from interrupting him by raising his hand. “The Leafs probably locked you in for the next eight years also, which means that, barring trades and end-of-career injuries, I’m stuck with you until I’m about ready to retire.”

 

“Yeah,” Auston confirms.

 

“So I need to figure out if I can stick around,” Mitch resumes. He feels remarkably calm about this, considering how much angst he’s been experiencing for the past six months. It’s not bound to last. “I’ll be talking to the rest of team as soon as possible, but I needed to clear the air with you before I go any further.”

 

“You can’t be thinking about leaving, Marns,” Matts says, a frown on his forehead.

 

“I’ve been thinking about pretty much nothing else since January, Matts,” Mitch replies calmly.

 

Matts pales and looks at his hands. He’s been playing with his car-keys since they sat down, a sign Mitch recognizes for what it is, the only visible indication of Matts’ discomfort.

 

“Have you talked to management?”

 

“Not yet. And it might not be as easy as I wish it to be, to get a trade,” Mitch admits ruefully. He’s good. He knows he’s good. But he’s not cheap, and Davo was right when he pointed out, two days ago, that not a lot of teams can afford him—thank you, salary cap— _and_ can offer him the space to play his game.

 

“Jesus, Marns,” Matts sighs. “Nobody wants you to leave. I swear.”

 

“It’s not about what other people wants, Matts. It’s about what I need,” Mitch says.

 

“You love playing in Toronto. It’s your city,” Matts insists.

 

Mitch laughs briefly at that. “Davo said something similar. And I never really thought about it as my city, you know?” he adds. “More, like, our city? Yours and mine; the team?”

 

It’s a jab. It’s designed to hurt. And it hits home—hard. Mitch sees it in the way Matts’ features go taut, in the way he loses whatever bit of color that was left on his face, in the way the bags under his eyes stand out so much he looks ridiculously like Stromer.

 

“I know I fucked up,” Matts begins.

 

“Yes, Matts, you did. You really, really did,” Mitch agrees.

 

“I wanted to fix it,” Matts continues. “From the second it started, I’ve wanted to fix it, I swear. Everyone else, too.”

 

“I believe you,” Mitch says. He finds that’s true. He doesn't doubt for a second his teammates wanted to repair the damage they’d done. “I believe you,” Mitch repeats. “But I wasn't ready to listen to you then. I am not sure I’m ready to listen to you now, to be honest. But I do need to make a decision. And this thing started with you. So it has to end with you, too.”

 

Matts nods. “I know.”

 

“What the fuck was that, then, Matts?” Mitch says, and just like that, his temporary calmness evaporates. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

 

“I wasn't,” Matts is quick to explain. “I wasn't. I saw you with that chick and I stopped thinking.”

 

“And since when are you the cheating police anyway?” Mitch adds, because that was also a sore point.

 

Matts blushes. “I never cheated on anyone,” he says offended.

 

“Neither have I,” Mitch points out. “But even if I did, what business is it of yours? Or the rest of the team?”

 

“I’m not responsible for the team, Marns. Fuck,” Matts says scrubbing his face with his hand.

 

“Right, because I was the one who was screaming about my business for all Vegas to hear,” Mitch snorts.

 

Matts winces and Mitch waits.

 

And waits.

 

And waits.

 

Matts continues not to say anything, however.

 

“It’s a two-way street, buddy,” Mitch says, with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “You can’t just say you fucked up and leave it at that. I deserve an explanation.”

 

Matts says nothing and after another minute, Mitch thinks _Fuck it,_ and gets up.

 

Matts looks at him wide-eyed, but still says nothing.

 

“Okay,” Mitch says. “I guess this isn’t going nowhere.” Which is really a bummer, because Mitch didn't want to humiliate Auston, but he did want to understand what had gone through his huge head back in Vegas.

 

“Wait,” Matts says. “Sit down, please. I really want to explain.”

 

Mitch sits, cautiously, not really convinced he’s about to get anything out of Matts.

 

Matts takes a deep breath and then begins to talk.

 

“It took me by surprise, and I overreacted. I know it’s lame,” he adds quickly when he realizes Mitch is about to interrupt him, “but it’s the truth. I thought about it over and over after it happened. Like, every day. The guys asked me, too. I tried to make sense of it. But I really couldn't come up with more than that. It was so weird, Marns. Not just seeing you with a girl, which I really could have done without. But there was this rage in me, about what I thought you were doing. And it doesn't make any sense when I think about it, but in that precise moment it did.”

 

“You ruined everything, Matty,” Mitch says sadly. Because it’s true, and it needs saying. Matts needs to understand this. “You ruined _everything_ , and you don't even know why.”

 

Matts’ eyes fill with tears, and Mitch’s never seen him crying. He doesn't want to, so he turns away. It’s hard enough to deal his own tears.

 

“And then, the rest of the guys followed your lead.”

 

“That’s on them,” Auston says harshly. “I’m sorry about that, and I apologized about how I behaved to them. I made a judgment error, and I am willing to own up to it. But the way Mo and Marty and the others reacted, that’s on them.”

 

“On your cue,” Mitch states.

 

“Yes,” Matts concedes. “But nobody told them they should believe my crazy assumptions.”

 

“That’s an awfully convenient position to take, Matts,” Mitch observes.

 

Matts snorts, and brushes the tears off his face.

 

“You think?” he chokes out, more tears stemming from his dark eyes. “You think this is easy? I have enough guilt to last me for a lifetime. I can’t deal with theirs too. Especially Marty’s. It’s not fair.”

 

Mitch thinks about that for a few minutes. It’s hard to accept what Matts is saying, because Mitch has cast him in the villain’s role, and Mitch wants Matts to be held accountable for that. But Matts is not wrong. He hadn’t lied to the team when he recounted in graphic details how he’d found Mitch in bed with a woman who wasn't his girlfriend.

 

“I just don't understand why everyone was so willing to believe I’d behave like that,” Mitch says discomfited.

 

“Don't you know?” Matts asks. “It’s easier to believe bad things about people than good ones.”

 

Mitch looks at Matts more closely and he ponders this forgiveness road he’s supposed to undertake. He doesn't quite fully understand it yet, and he’s not completely sold by Matts’ explanation. He also doesn't believe he’ll be able to trust Matts ever again, to trust the team, if Matts and the team aren’t truthful.

 

“There is something else,” Mitch pushes.

 

Matts looks at him attentively, seemingly uncomprehending. Something must tip him off, however, because he deflates like a pierced balloon.

 

“This is stupid,” Matts mumbles, hiding his face in his hands.

 

“I don't think it is, if it made you behave like a giant asshole,” Mitch observes.

 

“Well, you clearly know, so I’m not sure there’s much to tell.”

 

“Matts,” Mitch says, because apparently he gets to be the adult of the situation, even if he’s the injured party. “Auston,” he adds firmly. That gets Matts’ attention. “Still a two-way street here. You tell me why you did it and apologize; I tell you why it hurt and how much; you spend the next fifty years groveling and then maybe we can move on. Also, some people are convinced it’s a valid explanation.”

 

“It wasn't because of that,” Matts says.

 

“Maybe we can _not_ talk riddles?” Mitch suggests.

 

Matts says nothing, so Mitch decides to help him out—Matts and feelings, not the best combination, clearly. And Mitch thought Stromer was emotionally constipated.

 

“So you were not jealous I hooked up with a random girl while we were on the road,” he suggests.

 

“I wasn't _not_ jealous, exactly,” Matts says. It takes a second for Mitch to parse that out, because double negatives were never his strong suit—he really should have paid more attention to Ms. Trevor’s lessons.

 

“Okay,” Mitch says encouragingly. They might be getting somewhere, after all.

 

“It was just,” Matts hesitates. “I guess it was too much? The way I felt for you, and finding you with someone else. And then, realizing you were cheating on your girlfriend with someone else. I didn't know you guys had broken up, Mitch,” Matts says forcefully when Mitch tries to defend himself. “You didn't tell me. Which is fine,” he hastens to add, “but that’s the truth. So there I was, and there you were with this girl I’d never seen before. And the only thing that kept going through my mind until Willy said you guys had broken up was that you were willing to go out on your girl, but …”

 

Matts stops there, and Mitch waits patiently for what’s coming next.

 

“But it’d never be me,” Matts concludes. Mitch’s eyes widen. “It made me feel like shit, Marns,” Matts continues. “Because it made me realize that I’d be perfectly fine with being that person, the one who’s content to be a bit on the side and doesn't care about hurting other people.”

 

Matts takes a deep breath, and so does Mitch, because he’s finally starting to understand.

 

“I know I sleep around,” Matts admits. “I know I have a reputation, and I’ve got no problem with that. I’m young, single and healthy. I’m not going to start making apologies for behaving like a human being. But I never knowingly cheated on anyone. I am _not_ in a relationship, so I don't owe loyalty to anyone. If girls lie about their own situation, it’s not like I’m going to know unless I run a background check or something.”

 

Mitch nods, because there isn’t much he can say to that.

 

“But I’ve never been interested in being the other man—or other person, whatever. It’s not who I am. It’s not the kind of person I want to be. Some people are fine with that, but I’m not. So I never planned to do anything about how I felt for you. Besides the fact that you were dating someone, there was the whole ‘teammate on a NHL Original Six franchise’ problem; not to mention the whole guy thing, which I honestly didn't know how to juggle. But then I saw you with _her_ , I thought you were cheating and I realized I _could_ become that kind of person if it gave me a chance to be with you. And I hated myself. I hated myself so much for having thought that. So I turned against you.”

 

Mitch exhales heavily, but says nothing.

 

“And then, like fifteen minutes in this whole disaster of a night,” Matts carries on, “it turns out that you weren’t cheating on anybody. But even if you were single, you didn't want me.” Matts pauses, and then whispers, “You didn't want _me._ ”

 

“Fuck, Matts,” Mitch says. “I didn't know you were something I could have.”

 

“I _know_ ,” Matts says. “I told you: I never planned to do anything about this. Like ever. If it were up to me, you’d know nothing about this. You wanted an explanation, though. This is the best I can do.”

 

“You should have told me,” Mitch says.

 

“When?” Matts asks.

 

“After my girl broke it off …”

 

“I didn't know, Marns. Remember? You didn't tell anyone except for Willy,” Matts says, which, fair enough.

 

“He got me drunk and got it out of me,” Mitch confesses.

 

“How very Willy,” Matts says with a small smile. “I assume he then told Kappy?”

 

“Yeah,” Mitch confirms. “Like, thirty seconds later. I didn't even try to stop him.”

 

“Typical,” Matts comments.

 

Mitch is silent after that. He got what he wanted, an explanation. It isn’t pretty, it doesn't make Auston smell like roses, and it doesn't make feel Mitch better. But it makes sense _._ It makes _sense_ , and it’s more than Mitch has had in the past six months, so he’ll take it.

 

After a while, Matts starts fidgeting, which is unusual for him.

 

“What’s your best case scenario, Auston?” he asks.

 

“Shouldn't you be telling me that?” Matts says.

 

“I know what I want,” Mitch points out. “It’s you I’m in the dark about. I’m not trying to be a dick about this,” he hurries to reassure him. “I really need to know, though.”

 

Matts ponders Mitch’s question for a bit, and Mitch waits patiently, because he wants to make this right.

 

“I don't want you to leave Toronto, that’s for sure. I want you to talk to the guys, and let them apologize. I want you to accept their apology, and mine, and I want to work past all of this. I want to be your friend again, and play hockey with you for as long as we can. I want us to drive to the arena together and stop to chat with the door guys when we are there. I can honestly do without the singing on the bench, because I can’t sing, and neither can you, but I’m perfectly happy to wear matching fedoras again, if we have to.”

 

“That was once,” Mitch defends himself.

 

“It was enough,” Matts states. “I just want what we had before I fucked it all up,” he adds.

 

“That might not be possible,” Mitch says striving for honesty. Too much has changed, even without considering Matts’ feelings.

 

“I know,” Matts agrees. “I was simply answering your question. What do you want?”

 

And Mitch knows he owes Matts nothing, despite his explanation and his repeated apologies. Yet, he thinks Matts should know Mitch’s truth as well.

 

“I just want it to stop hurting, Matts,” he says softly. “Sometimes it’s so unbearable I feel like I’m torn into pieces. I don't know how to make it stop.”

 

“Mitch …” Matts says brokenly.

 

“Davo thinks I need to forgive and forget,” Mitch adds.

 

“That sounds like something Connor McDavid would say,” Matts acknowledges ruefully.

 

“Yeah,” Mitch smiles. “He’s been championing that cause since we started talking again.”

 

“Ah,” Matts says, a light bulb seemingly going off. “That’s who told you.”

 

“He told Stromer,” Mitch explains. “I was just conveniently positioned to overhear him.”

 

“I am sure you were,” Matts says.

 

“I don't know that I can,” Mitch continues. “I mean, I know I _want_ to, otherwise I wouldn't be here, contract or no contract. But when I think about what you said, and what the others thought, it just seems so impossible.”

 

“What does Davo think about that?” Matts asks, which is probably the smart thing to say, since Davo is, like, the fucking NHL Yoda-in-Training—the title of NHL Yoda still belongs to Sidney Crosby, regardless of what Davo wishes to believe.

 

“He thinks I just needed some distance to figure out this ordeal that happened is not a deal-breaker, and that six months is long enough.”

 

Matts winces in sympathy.

 

“Yeah,” Mitch says. “He’s been great since we made up, but he’s not been pulling his punches. I wouldn't be here if it weren’t for him. And Stromer.”

 

“I’ll make sure to thank them next time I see them,” Matts assures him.

 

“You can thank Davo,” Mitch advises him. “I would stay away from Stromer for a while longer.”

 

Matts nods seriously. Mitch hopes he’s going to follow the advice, because Stromer is still perfectly willing to skin him alive.

 

“I’m still in love with you, Marns,” Matts then says a propos of nothing.

 

Mitch can feel himself blush. He wasn't expecting that _at all._

 

“Sorry,” Matts says, “I just wanted you to know.”

 

“I …” Mitch begins. “I really don't know what to do about that,” he confesses.

 

“You don't have to do anything,” Matts says. “But you wanted me to tell you the truth, so there it is.”

 

“You’re not, like, pining and shit, right?” Mitch asks, because that seems important.

 

“What?” Matts looks at him horrified. “No, Jesus, of course not,” he says vehemently.

 

Mitch giggles, because Matts looks like a wet cat, all of a sudden. Matts rolls his eyes but says nothing else.

 

“Okay. I’m glad. I wouldn't want you to waste away or something.”

 

“Trust me, that’s not going to be a problem,” Matts confirms. He must be telling the truth, Mitch observes, because besides the usual bags under his eyes, Matts looks fine.

 

“Good,” Mitch says before getting up.

 

“Where are you going?” Matts asks him alarmed.

 

“I was thinking we could see if the rink is free and maybe shoot some pucks?” Mitch says hesitantly. He needs to figure out if he can _be_ with Matts, exists in the same space he is, breathe the same air, before he can tackle being with the team. The team is important, but Mitch is sufficiently self-aware to know Matts has always been more important.

 

“I don't have my skates,” Matts says, but he doesn't look opposed to the idea.

 

“I’m sure we can figure something out,” Mitch smiles.

 

**IX. Dylan**

“They’re still at the rink,” Davo huffs one week later, after checking his phone for the umpteenth.

 

“I’m not sure where you were expecting them to be,” Dylan tells him without looking up from Instagram. He’s busy liking some of the most recent pictures a couple of their friends posted and he wants to upload a few of his own.

 

“I can’t believe you’re so relaxed about it,” Davo whines.

 

Dylan hasn't really missed the whining, to be honest. It’s not Davo’s most attractive quality.

 

“It helped that Mitch threatened to cut my balls if I behaved like an ass,” Dylan reminds him. “Yours too, if I remember correctly.”

 

Davo dismisses Mitch’s threat with a wave of hand, like the naïve idiot he is. Mitch can be vicious when he wants to. Dylan prefers not to interfere with his ‘bonding time with Matts’ or whatever the hell they’re calling it. It’s not like he doesn't know where Matts lives, if push comes to shove.

 

“I just cannot believe he forgave him so quickly,” Davo huffs.

 

“He didn't,” Dylan explains. _Again_. “Hence the 'skate dates’.”

 

“Still,” Davo mumbles unhappy.

 

“I’m not sure I follow, Davo. Are you unhappy because Mitch is trying to rebuild his relationship with Matts or because he’s spending more time with him than he’s with you?”

 

“What?” Davo exclaims. “No, what the hell? I’m happy about that, and I don't care if he’s got no time for me. With everything I have to do, it’s not like I can hang out with him either.”

 

“Then what the fuck is your problem?” Dylan asks, tossing the phone on the couch he’s been lying on for the last twenty minutes. They are in Connor’s Toronto condo, which is nice, if a bit bland. But then, Connor McDavid has never been one for interior decorating.

 

“I just don't like that he’s ditched you,” Davo grumbles.

 

Dylan laughs at that.

 

“He hasn't ditched me, you ass,” he says, giving Davo a noogie before going to the kitchen to get something to drink. “I still talk to him all the time, and I saw him yesterday.”

 

“I don't like it,” Davo insists.

 

“Do we need to have another discussion about boundaries and how relationships work in the twenty-first century, Davo?” Dylan yells from the kitchen.

 

“I’m not as socially inept as you’d like to believe, Stromer,” Davo says, sounding slightly offended.

 

Dylan gets back to the living room with two bottles of G2 and, after passing one to Davo, sits down on the couch. He signals Davo to sit near him and, once he’s done so, he begins yet another Davo-tailored speech.

 

“Brilliant minds beg to differ, Davo, but that’s besides the point. I’m happy Mitch is trying to figure things out. I don't want him to leave Toronto and end up in Columbus, Ohio, or Los Angeles. Talking to Matts and spending time with him is helping. You can see it.”

 

“Yeah,” Davo admits.

 

“That’s what we wanted, right?” Dylan continues. “For him to make a rational decision, and not one guided by grief?”

 

“It’s just that sometimes he gets back from the rink looking so sad,” Davo says.

 

“I know,” Dylan acknowledges.

 

It’s been hard to watch, ever since Mitch came to the Stromers’ house a week ago and told Dylan what had transpired between him and Matts—Dylan had to fill Davo in because he had to go somewhere in Quebec for some media obligation.

 

Mitch had met with Matts every day after that at the rink, to train together and play together. “To see if we can be together,” Mitch had explained.

 

Dylan hadn’t known if Mitch meant together or _together_ , but he hadn’t asked. He didn't think loving Auston Matthews had ever been a problem for Mitch Marner. Matts was for Mitch what Davo had always represented for Dylan: unlimited possibilities, but always with the underlining warmth and comfort of a deep friendship.

 

“Dyls,” Davo says, and Dylan looks at him.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Dylan smiles. “He needs to do it this way, Davo. Look at the bright side. He called Rielly yesterday.”

 

“I know,” Davo says with a satisfied smile. “Though I don't get why I can’t go with him when they meet.”

 

“Stop trying to captain Marns, Davo,” Dylan warns him for the seventh time—one for each day of the week.

 

“I’m not,” Davo grumbles.

 

“You absolutely are. He doesn't need a captain. He just needs his friends back. And little by little, he’s getting there.”

 

“When did you get to be so wise?” Davo asks.

 

“Fuck off, Davo,” Dylan slaps him in the head. “You weren’t around. Someone had to be the voice of reason and it sure as hell wasn't going to be Nylander.”

 

“True,” Davo concurs. “Do you think they’re going to get together?”

 

“Who?” Dylan prevaricates.

 

“Don't be an ass, Stromer,” Davo whines.

 

“I’m the soul of discretion, Davo. I would not dare making assumptions or guessing about the status of my friends' relationships.”

 

Davo’s cheeks redden, and Dylan smirks, because it’s always fun to mess with Connor McDavid.

 

“It was an honest mistake,” he defends himself.

 

“You’re the captain of a fucking NHL team, Connor,” Dylan laughs. “How do you have time to worry about other people’s love lives?”

 

“I just want to make sure Mitch is going to be alright.”

 

“Whether it’s with me, Matts, or someone else?” Dylan asks, waggling his eyebrows. “You’ve got too much invested in Marns’ personal life.”

 

“You guys are not together,” Davo comments, because after almost two weeks, he might finally have been convinced of that fact.

 

“It really bothered you, when you thought we were,” he says serious.

 

“Yeah,” Davo admits after a few second of stilted silence. The atmosphere between them shifts drastically and Dylan makes some spaces between the two of them so he can see Davo better.

 

“Care to explain why?”

 

Mitch might have a point, Dylan is willing to admit that. Him and Davo have been friends for so long, and during such important and formative years, that they might have done precisely nothing about making them a different _them_ , if it weren’t for the six months of radio silence Dylan forced upon them both. After all, why change something that works?

 

“You know why, Dyls,” Davo says equally serious, his blue eyes blazing with barely suppressed emotions.

 

“The others never bothered you, Davo,” Dylan points out.

 

For all that Dylan’s always been a bit in love with Connor McDavid, he’s not been pining for the past five years—he _hasn't,_ and Mitch doesn't know what the hell he’s talking about.

 

He’s had girlfriends, and one or two boyfriends, because sex is sex, and Dylan’s never been fussy. So Davo has seen him with people over the years. Lots of people. And the opposite is true. Davo might have been a bit more … discriminating in his choice of bed partners, but he’d still had plenty while they were in the O. And a few girlfriends here and there, the last one lasting quite a bit, too. So Dylan had had his share, and so had Davo, and neither of them had ever been jealous of the other, because they’d apparently decided—without ever discussing it—that being together was going to be the road never travelled. Yet, Davo has always been a bit unreasonable about Marns.

 

“The others weren’t Mitch,” Davo says, reading Dylan’s mind.

 

Dylan’s heart melts because it probably one of the sweetest things Davo’s ever said to him. His face must show some of his gooey feelings because Davo reddens again, and it’s not attractive, not really. Because Connor McDavid is really _not_ an attractive dude, and Dylan has awful taste in men. Jesus. Matty’s going to be relentless in his chirping. Thankfully, Connor is Ryan’s captain, so Ryan’s going to keep his mouth shut.

 

“He was never a threat,” Dylan says softly.

 

“I guess,” Davo mumbles.

 

“Come on, Davo,” Dylan insists. “If something had to happen between me and Mitch, it would have been at the draft. You saw us there. We were always in each other’s orbit. It didn't, though.”

 

“Everything got thrown off in January, Dyls,” Davo observes shrewdly. “And sure, Mitch might not have been looking at guys before he met Auston Matthews and fell in love with his hockey, or whatever the fuck he was doing, but after that, and after what happened with the Leafs, it was a completely new game.”

 

“Nothing ever happened, Davo. I promise,” Dylan says, because it seems to matter to Davo, more than Dylan had understood.

 

“I know, I know,” Davo says with a soft smile. “And I’m not made of crystal. It would be okay if it had. I get that you guys aren’t together. But with all that was going on, and the radio silence, and how I heard that he was relying on you and you were there for him … Things just got away from me.”

 

“We would have made a cute couple,” Dylan observes.

 

Davo rolls his eyes, but he doesn't deny it, which Dylan appreciates.

 

“Something that can really be said about the two of us,” Dylan adds with a grin.

 

“You are such a fucking asshole,” Davo says leaning back on the couch to better look at Dylan.

 

“What can I say,” Dylan laughs. “I’m charming like that.”

 

“You’re something,” Davo says.

 

Dylan smiles again, and then, getting serious, since they need to figure this out before long, he says, “I want us to try, Davo.”

 

Connor gets this deer-caught-in-the-headlight look he has sometimes when people throw him off his game.

 

“You weren’t expecting that,” Dylan observes perplexed.

 

“No,” Davo confirms. “I never thought we’d get around talking about it.”

 

“Better late than never,” Dylan comments.

 

Davo looks thoughtful, not that Dylan was expecting anything less.

 

“I’m just afraid it’s going to mess us up if it doesn't work out,” he confesses eventually.

 

“To be fair, it probably won’t work out,” Dylan admits ruefully. He doesn't have the best track record to begin with, and him and Davo are NHL players. They’re not going to be in the same city for at least the next fifteen years.

 

“Way to sell the romance, Dyls,” Davo snorts.

 

“Oh, the romance is not going to be the problem,” Dylan says, a bit surprised about how sure he feels about this. “We’ve been friends for years, and we’ve loved each other for so long it’s part of us,” he carries on.

 

Davo’s cheeks redden, but he doesn't deny it. Dylan didn't think he would.

 

“I’m more concerned about the logistics and the long distance.”

 

“I’ve never been with a guy before, Dyls,” Davo admits, which Dylan kind of knew, but fine.

 

“Not the logistics I was thinking about, but okay. The unknown’s never stopped you before, Davo. Unless,” Dylan hastens to add, “you’re not interested in me that way. Which is fine if you aren’t.” Dylan has gotten way too many seminars on consent since he’s started playing hockey—like his family hadn’t taught him better anyway.

 

“No, no,” Davo says embarrassed. “It’s just … I thought you should know. I won’t know what I’m doing.”

 

“But you’re such a quick study,” Dylan smirks. “Plus I’ve been told I’m an excellent teacher. And a body’s a body, and you know how do handle a dick, so I don't see a problem there.”

 

“Jesus, Stromer,” Davo inhales heavily. “We haven’t even started and the romance is beyond dead—it’s, like, mummified and buried under a metric-ton of shit.”

 

“As I just said: charming,” Dylan waggles his eyebrows.

 

“Right,” Davo says.

 

“So,” Dylan resumes. “Logistics and long distance.”

 

“Should we see if we are compatible in bed before we start thinking of that?” Davo asks worriedly.

 

“You want me to put out before we exchange promise rings?” Dylan replies pretending of being horrified about Davo’s forwardness.

 

“Fuck off, Stromer,” Davo says, showing he knows Dylan after all.

 

“We played together for two years, Davo, and we lived in each other pockets’ for most of those. Do you really think compatibility in bed is going to be the problem?”

 

“When you put it like that,” Davo mumbles embarrassed.

 

“However,” Dylan says with a leer, getting up from the couch and extending a hand towards Connor. “We might as well give it a go.”

 

“What? Now?” Davo asks, blue eyes all shocked.

 

“Well,” Dylan says. “Marns is going to be a while yet and I’ve got nothing better to do.”

 

“I can feel the love here, pouring out your soul,” Davo gripes. He gets up, though, so Dylan doesn't hold it against him.

 

“Come on, McDavid,” Dylan says grabbing Davo’s hand. “Show me your fucking etchings.”

 

**X. Dylan**

It turns out, Davo’s etchings are pretty fucking impressive. Not five minutes into the heavy petting session Dylan started in an attempt to get Davo to lose his mind, it’s Dylan who’s a quivering mess in Davo’s bed.

 

Davo is looming over him, stark naked, with a smug smile on his face. Dylan is on his back, breathing erratic, hating Davo and his teasing heart.

 

“Go back to sucking my dick,” he whines unattractively. Davo’s good at that, apparently, which kind of beg the question about _how_ he’s got so good at that.

 

“In a moment,” Davo says, his darkened eyes taking in every inch of Dylan’s body.

 

“Come on, Davo,” Dylan insists. “It’s not like you haven’t seen me before.” He’s flattered by the attention, don't get him wrong. But he’s more interested in the main event than the appetizers, as tasty as they might be.

 

“Not like this,” Davo whispers, brushing his nose along Dylan’s jaw. “Never like this,” he adds before capturing Dylan’s mouth in a kiss.

 

It’s their first kiss, because they’d been so preoccupied with getting each other naked and in bed that they’d neglected that particular activity; then Davo’s mouth had been on Dylan’s dick and Dylan had gotten sidetracked. Big mistake.

 

Davo’s mouth is the stuff of dreams. He knows how to kiss—which doesn't surprise Dylan, because he’s seen Davo in action more often than he likes to remember. What’s surprising is that Davo doesn't kiss like he does everything else—determined, relentless, and focused. He’s careful, and loving and soft, so fucking soft it melts Dylan’s heart. He kisses Dylan like Dylan’s the most precious thing in the entire universe and he’s so careful with him, like Dylan might shatter—which is not beyond the realm of possibilities, all things considered.

 

Dylan grabs Davo’s neck and pulls him in. He wants him closer, but he doesn't want Davo to stop kissing him. Davo grants Dylan’s silent request without stopping his kiss. Dylan’s hands grab on Davo’s back and he widens his legs to accommodate Davo’s lower body.

 

“Jesus, Dyls,” Davo murmurs leaving a string of kisses over Dylan’s face and neck.

 

Dylan hooks his left leg around Davo’s lower back.

 

“More,” he asks, forgetting about Davo’s mouth on his dick for a second. This is so much better.

 

Davo hums and continues to kiss Dylan breathlessly. His hands are everywhere, and Dylan’s going out of his mind with need.

 

“Come on, Connor,” he whines, not even sure what he’s asking for anymore.

 

Davo seems to understand, however, because he grabs both of their dicks and starts moving his hand with a determined rhythm. It doesn't take long for Dylan to come—he’d been close since they’d gotten naked. Davo’s not far behind, though he’s much quieter than Dylan was.

 

Afterwards, silence fills the room—a long silence, unusual between the two of them when they are together, but not uncomfortable.

 

Dylan wants to make a joke, or praise Davo for being a teacher’s pet, or something. It seems wrong, however. He feels at peace here, with Davo sprawled on top of him, their bodies plastered together, their legs intertwined. He should have known that things would be like this between them. He _had_ known.

 

“Five years, Dyls,” Davo says after a while.

 

Dylan hums, because Davo’s not wrong.

 

“Five years,” Davo repeats burying his nose in the nook of Dylan’s neck.

 

“At least it wasn't fifty,” Dylan comments to lighten the mood.

 

“Dyls,” Davo says.

 

“It’s fine, Connor,” Dylan comforts him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. Davo intertwines their fingers and they stay like that for a long time, soaking in each other’s presence and this new intimacy there is between them.

 

“I love you. You know that, right?” Davo asks Dylan after a while.

 

Dylan pulls away a bit to look Davo in the eye—they need a shower anyway, because having mind-blowing sex with your BFF might be awesome, but dry come sucks balls.

 

“Of course I know. I’ve always known,” Dylan smiles softly.

 

Davo looks at him seriously before nodding.

 

“And you love me. I know that too,” Davo continues.

 

It’s not the best declaration of feelings they could have come up with, Dylan thinks, but it’s so typical theirs—Davo leading and Dylan following, until Davo does something idiotic of course. So it works.

 

“Yep,” he admits with a laugh.

 

“And we are going to be fine,” Davo adds.

 

“You know what?” Dylan asks dropping a kiss on Davo’s forehead. “I think we will.”

 

It’s going to suck, with him in Arizona and Davo in Alberta. But they made their way back to each other in the aftermath of the Vegas-and-Mitch disaster. If they can survive a six-month separation and come out like this—stronger, more committed to taking care of each other and, for once, willing to risk it all to finally _be_ together—then yes: they’re going to be just fine.

 

**XI. Mitch**

Mitch gets back home from his meeting with Mo feeling exhausted. Mo’s been understanding, apologetic and supportive—everything Mitch was expecting him to be after he’d called him two weeks ago. Still, it hasn't been easy and Mitch hasn't been this tired since last year’s playoff run. It doesn't help that he’s had to use a portion of his energies working up the courage to text Marty.

 

They’ve started exchanging messages a few days back—Mitch deciding to do two things at the same time just to take advantage of the momentum. The hockey metaphor had only gone so far, however, because one’s personal life is not a hockey game.

 

Him and Marty have been in contact since then, and things are getting better—slowly. Mitch is not ready to talk to him, though. He’s all talked out between Matts and Mo—not to mention his daily pseudo-therapy sessions with Davo. Dylan has taken a backseat, letting Mitch reconnect with all the people he cut off in his anger. He simply sends Mitch links to videos of cute puppies and kittens on a regular basis.

 

Mitch has been home for all of five minutes when his phone ring. It’s Davo, because of course it is.

 

“How did it go?” he asks.

 

“Hi Marns? How are you on this lovely day?” Mitch says mockingly.

 

“Come on, Marns,” Davo whines.

 

“Stromer’s right, you know,” Mitch says to yank Connor’s chain, “whining is really not your most attractive quality.

 

“Tell me how it went,” Davo demands, completely ignoring Mitch.

 

“It was fine, Davo,” Mitch breathes out.

 

“Are you sure?” Davo insists.

 

“Where is Stromer?” Mitch deflects, because he doesn't want to do this twice, and Davo and Dylan have been attached at the hip since they started having sex. They’re disgustingly cute and insanely codependent—Mitch is going to have chirping material on the two of them, but especially Davo, for the rest of their _life._

 

“In bed,” Davo says sheepishly.

 

“At two o’clock in the afternoon?” Mitch asks.

 

“Marns,” Davo hisses.

 

“I’m just saying,” Mitch laughs.

 

“He could be taking a nap,” Davo argues.

 

“But he clearly isn’t,” Mitch says.

 

“Whatever,” Davo huffs. “You want me to put you one speaker?”

 

“It’d be nice not to have to tell the same story twice,” Mitch admits.

 

He spends the next thirty minutes catching Dylan and Davo up with the Mo situation. Davo hums approvingly here and there, but Stromer is remarkably silent throughout Mitch’s recounting. Not that Mitch’s worried. Stromer is the quiet one in their relationship—Mitch talks for the two of them.

 

Once Mitch is done with explaining what Morgan said, Davo and Dylan are quiet for a bit.

 

“Guys?” Mitch asks tentatively.

 

“It’s good, Mitch,” Stromer finally says.

 

“Yeah, I know, but you weren’t saying anything,” Mitch mumbles.

 

“Wait a second,” he adds suspicious. “You guys aren’t having sex right now, I hope.”

 

“Fuck off, Marns,” Stromer says. “If we were having sex you’d know.”

 

“Stromer!” Davo exclaims, and Mitch can picture him going red in the face at Dylan’s teasing.

 

“What?” Mitch smirks. “You can stick your big nose in my personal life, but I can’t do the same with yours?”

 

Davo mumbles something that makes Dylan laugh, although Mitch doesn't hear it.

 

“Anyways,” Stromer says. “I’m glad. It looks like the Leafs did the right thing by choosing him as captain.”

 

“It’s not public knowledge, yet, so don't say anything,” Mitch tells him.

 

“Don’t worry, Marns,” Davo intervenes. “We’re not. And it’s July already. It’s not going to be long now.”

 

Right. It’s July, and Mitch’s agent has been on his ass to sign the goddamn contract. Mitch had wanted to talk to Morgan. To be sure, he had actually wanted to talk to the rest of the team too, but that had turned out to be unrealistic, because people are away and only Auston, Hymie and Morgan are in Toronto right now. Mitch’s agent thinks he can wait a bit longer, but it’s a good contract, and it’s not like Mitch has been holding out because he wants more money. So talking to the team as a whole might have to wait until pre-season.

 

To be sure, Willy and Kappy have been texting Mitch incessantly, especially once Mitch told them he’d talked to Matts. Freddie had called a couple of times, which Mitch had found very sweet, to make sure Mitch was okay with everything. Mac hadn’t, but it’s not Mac’s style. He had sent Mitch a one-year supply of Skittles, however. Mitch had cried for an hour, Stromer gently patting him on the back, while Davo had looked an interesting mixture of amused and horrified.

 

“I think I’m gonna stick around,” Mitch blurts out. He didn't know he was going to, not until this very second, but talking to Morgan has helped a lot.

 

Dylan and Davo are silent for one second before they start hollering and screaming and yelling like Mitch has just been selected fourth overall by the Toronto Maple Leafs for a second time.

 

“Jesus, guys,” Mitch laughs. He loves them so very much—Dylan more, if he’s honest, because Dylan is special, but Davo too, because Davo has been doing his level best to be there for Mitch.

 

“That’s awesome, Marns,” Davo says. Mitch can picture the huge grin on his dorky face.

 

“Are you sure, Mitch?” Stromer inquires, as always attuned to Mitch’s nuanced feelings.

 

“Yeah,” Mitch says. “It’s been good, talking to Mo. And Matts; and texting Marty,” he adds.

 

“What about the rest of the team?” Stromer insists.

 

“I’m thinking about calling Hymie and Brownie,” Mitch confesses. “Like, meeting a couple of them at a time.”

 

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Davo comments. “That way you won’t feel overwhelmed.”

 

“Yeah,” Mitch agrees. “Mo wants to come along if I do this, but …”

 

“You need to do this on your own,” Stromer tells him. He knows Mitch so well.

 

“I do. And to be completely honest, I’m more worried about Bozie and JVR than I am about Hymie or the Connors.”

 

“It’s going to be fine, Mitch,” Davo says reassuringly. “They want to fix things. They’re not going to be assholes about it.”

 

“Yeah,” Mitch sighs. He knows it to be true. It’s just difficult to remind himself of that sometimes. Morgan had been adamant about how Mitch’s fears are unfounded, however, so that’s going to help.

 

“What you going to do now?” Davo asks.

 

“I promised my parents I’d go over to catch them up with things.”

 

“What, no skate date with Matts, today?” Stromer jokes.

 

Mitch smiles. “Tomorrow, I think.”

 

“Is he going to be around the entire summer?”

 

Mitch rolls his eyes at Davo’s nosiness. “He has stuff to do and friends to see, Connor, so no. I think he said he’s going back to Arizona next week.”

 

“And how do we feel about that?” Davo asks.

 

“If you are using the ‘royal we’ ever again, McDavid, I am going to put itching powder in your jock strap the next time we play together,” Mitch promises.

 

“In your dreams,” Davo replies.

 

“Anyway, enough about my feelings,” Mitch changes topic, because he doesn't want to discuss his feelings about Matts’ imminent departure just yet. He hasn't completely disentangled them. “What are you guys going to do?”

 

“You mean right now or in general?” Stromer asks, thus rescuing Mitch from Davo’s relentless questioning.

 

“I mean for the rest of the summer. I’m assuming you’re not going to spend it all fucking,” Mitch mocks them.

 

Davo gasps, Dylan laughs and then fills Mitch in with their plans for what is left of July and August.

 

Earlier the following week, Mitch feels much better about life. He’s met with Hymie and Brownie—difficult but ultimately rewarding—he’s talked on the phone with Marty—horrible and heartbreaking; by the end of it, they’d both been quivering messes, but at least the healing had started—and he’s told his agent that he’s going to sign the contract.

 

After all the turmoil of the past months, Mitch is genuinely surprised the decision turned out to be so easy. Dylan and Davo have certainly played a significant role in making things better, but Mitch knows that Mo’s support, the team’s stubbornness and Matts’ unwillingness to let go have helped tremendously as well.

 

Matts is flying back to Arizona tonight, however, something that doesn't sit well with Mitch.

 

Things have been good between the two of them. Day after day, they’re finding their way back to each other. It’s slow and tentative at times, this friendship they’re building back from scratch; and it’s not easy. Still, Mitch will take this over the heart wrenching desolation he’s felt since Vegas.

 

Mitch still doesn't know what to do about all the unresolved feelings that exist between him and Auston. He’s been trying to ignore them, because they can get so overwhelming he doesn't know what to do with himself.

 

Auston has been nothing short than wonderful since they've started hanging out together. Available for training and talking, and willing to follow Mitch’s lead, while at the same time expressing his opinions and not treating Mitch with kid’s gloves, which Mitch appreciates. He’s given Mitch space when Mitch had canceled on him because it was not a good day, and he’s given Mitch grief when Mitch had messed up an easy pass or a basic drill during their skate dates.

 

So they _are_ finding their way back to each other, Mitch’s convinced of this. At the same time, however, he cannot help but wondering what to do about the elephant in the room.

 

Auston hasn't brought up his feelings for Mitch once in the past few weeks—as far as Mitch can tell, the conversation is over for him. Also, Auston is definitely not pining—Mitch doesn't know what Matts does when he’s not with Mitch, but he’s certainly not hiding in his apartment doodling _Auston Matthews Marner_ all over his bedroom. It doesn't bother Mitch, not exactly, but he feels a little put off about this declaration of love that went nowhere. He hasn't brought it up, however, because he doesn't know what to do.

 

Dylan said something about not waiting for five years—which, point taken. But Mitch and Auston are not Dylan and Connor—for one, they play on the same same team, which spells ‘clusterfuck of epic proportions’ all over. In addition, Mitch isn’t still completely sold on the idea he can trust Matts to take care of his heart. He didn't do a particularly outstanding job the first time around.

 

The result is a stalemate, which doesn't leave Mitch particularly satisfied. And now Auston is leaving, and he’s probably not going to come back to Toronto until training camp starts in September.

 

Auston Matthews might not be pining, but Mitch isn’t so sure _he_ isn’t.

 

They were supposed to grab some lunch with Dylan and Davo—Davo’s idea, because it certainly wasn't Stromer’s. However, the Coyotes asked Dylan to do some promotional stuff in Toronto at the last minute because someone had fallen ill and Dylan was in the area. Davo decided to go with Dylan, and now Mitch is stuck with having lunch with Matts without the buffer his friends would have provided.

 

It’ll be the first time him and Matts are together off the ice since the _talk_ , and Mitch is nervous. This, compounded with the frustration he feels at Matts’ departure, is not Mitch’s idea of fun. Still, once lunchtime comes around, he grabs his car keys and takes himself to Matts’ apartment. They have a reservation for a steak place in Toronto used to catering to local athletes. In other words, the management there knows the meaning of discretion and there are enough private dining rooms for them to eat in peace. It helps that it’s baseball season, which isn’t saying much as far as Toronto is concerned, but it’s enough that sports fans are concentrating on something other than hockey. Him and Matts might just go undetected.

 

“What’s up?” Matts says as he climbs in Mitch’s car.

 

Bon Jovi is playing on the radio, and the irony of it doesn't escape Mitch, although, at least, it’s not _You Give Love a Bad Name._

“Are you packed?” Mitch asks as he makes his way into Toronto midday traffic.

 

“Nah,” Matts says taking off his snapback and sunglasses. “I didn't bring much, and what I did can stay here. It’s not like I can buy more.”

 

“Way to budget for rainy days, dude,” Mitch chirps him.

 

“What can I say,” Matts says haughtily, “if you have it, flaunt it.”

 

“I’m gonna tell your mom,” Mitch threatens, because Ema Matthews didn't raise a waster. “Don't think I won’t.”

 

Auston goes pale under his tan. “Please don't,” he begs. “I was kidding anyway. I’ve got plenty of stuff at home and plenty of stuff here. I don't need to drag suitcases of clothes back and forth.”

 

“You are nothing more than a mama-boy,” Mitch chirps him, like he isn’t the same.

 

“You’re such a fucking tool, Marns,” Matts gripes. Mitch laughs and drives them through the city until they get to the parking lot near to the restaurant.

 

“You just fall for it so beautifully,” Mitch says. “It’s hard to resist.”

 

“For that, lunch is on you,” Auston grumbles.

 

“Oh, no, buddy,” Mitch shots back. “I’m not the one with the 100 million dollar contract.”

 

“It’s not 100 million dollars,” Auston huffs under his breath.

 

“What was that, Matthews?” Mitch smirks.

 

“You heard me,” Auston grumbles.

 

“Okay, it’s not 100 million. Don't feel bad it’s not as good as Davo’s,” Mitch mocks him, because sometimes first-overall-draft-picks need to be reminded of their limitations. “I’m still not paying for your food when you can afford to feed yourself.”

 

“I am as good as Davo. I’m better than Davo,” Matts protests as they make their way.

 

“Jury still out on that,” Mitch says as he struggles to keep up with Auston, because he’s walking like he’s being trailed by a pride of lions. He does that when he’s mad.

 

Auston bites his lip and Mitch can no longer contain his mirth. He burst out laughing. Auston’s cheeks redden and then he gives Mitch an unfriendly look.

 

“Lunch,” he hisses. “On you. Five courses with all the trimmings. And wine.”

 

“You don't like wine, Matts,” Mitch says firmly. “Don’t pretend you’re cosmopolitan all of a sudden.”

 

“I like wine,” Auston retorts as they enter the restaurant.

 

“Kombucha is not wine, Auston, we went over this already.”

 

A polite cough brings Mitch’s attention where it should have been to begin with.

 

A nicely put-together woman in her mid twenties smiles politely at them, and Mitch hastens to give her his name so they can be seated before they might be recognized.

 

Once they’re at their table and they’ve taken care of ordering something to drink, Mitch turns his attention towards Matts.

 

“Are you excited of going back to Arizona?” he asks him.

 

They practice their admittedly abysmal small talk until their waiter comes to take their orders. Once that’s done, silence falls between them. It’s uncomfortable, and Mitch knows it’s his fault, at least in part.

 

Mitch fidgets with his napkin for a bit, until Auston breaks the silence.

 

“What’s wrong, Marns?”

 

Mitch takes a deep breath. “When are you coming back?”

 

Matts looks at him in surprise. “To Toronto?”

 

“Yeah,” Mitch says. Where was he thinking? Albuquerque?

 

“I’m not sure,” Auston admits reluctantly. “Before training camp.”

 

“Training camp is in mid-September,” Mitch blurts out. It’s not even mid-July yet. What the fuck does Matts have to do in Arizona for two months?

 

Mitch regrets the outburst as soon as the words are out of his mouth. It’s none of his business what Matts is doing for the rest of the summer, and he’s certainly not obligated to spend any more time with Mitch.

 

Matts stares at him, surprise still coloring his features.

 

“What?” Mitch asks belligerently.

 

He should have kept his mouth shut. Even better, he should have cancelled lunch when Davo and Dylan had bailed, because the churning in his stomach he’s experiencing right now reminds him way too much of how he felt for months after Vegas.

 

“You could come visit?” Matts suggests somewhat shyly.

 

“To Arizona?” Mitch asks.

 

“I’m training in LA for a bit, also, in about six weeks? But yes. To either. Both.”

 

Mitch chews on his straw while he ponders Matts’ offer. Can he do that? Maybe. Is it a good idea? Possibly.

 

“I’d stay if I could, Mitch,” Matts confesses, his dark eyes all serious. “But I’ve commitments that were scheduled a while ago.”

 

“I know, I’m sorry,” Mitch hastens to reassure him. “It’s not like I don't have things to do, too. It’s just that I am afraid if you leave everything is going to go back to being shitty and I don't think I can bear it.”

 

“What are you saying here, Marns?” Matts asks straightening his back.

 

Mitch doesn't want to jerk Auston around. At the same time, however, he doesn't want to cheat himself out of a chance at being happy because of fucking logistics. If Davo and Dylan can make it work when there are almost two thousand miles between them for seven months out of the year, Mitch and Auston can certainly survive a summer apart. They need to be on more solid footing, however, and Mitch doesn't think they’re there yet.

 

“Things have been good, right?” he begins. When Matts nods, Mitch continues. “I want them to stay good. I want things to be better, until they are excellent and there is no more room for improvement. I get that you have to go, but I really wish you didn't. Being with you has helped more than anything else I’ve been doing in the past few weeks. Which isn’t really surprising, since so much of the hurt I had inside was because of you.”

 

Matts winces and Mitch is quick to apologize. “I don't mean to make you feel bad. I just want you to know. And I know we cannot spend the entire summer together. I still don't like it.”

 

Matts exhales. “As I said, you can come visit. Whenever you want. But it might be good for us to spend a little time apart, Marns.”

 

Mitch wants to object, but Matts stops him. “I think we are going to be fine,” he says. “I _know_ we are going to be fine, but your mental wellbeing shouldn't depend on my presence—exactly like it shouldn't have depended on my absence after Vegas.”

 

Mitch wrinkles his nose but doesn't disagree with Matts’ assessment.

 

“I don't want to leave, Mitch,” Auston insists. “But I think I have to. But, please, don't think for even one second that I’m actually going anywhere.”

 

Mitch looks at him and Matts smiles.

 

“Okay?” Matts asks.

 

Mitch nods, because the frog that’s taken residence in his throat is a bit of a nuisance right now.

 

Their lunch arrives, and Mitch doesn't even pretend to want to eat until Matts orders him to.

 

“Stromer’s going to be in Glendale in a few weeks for some charity gig the Coyotes set up,” Mitch comments after a few minutes.

 

“Yeah, it’s an annual thing,” Matts says. “Wait a minute. You want to come visit with _Stromer_?” He looks horrified at the suggestion, and Mitch can’t help but giggle.

 

“I mean, I could kill two birds with a stone?”

 

“The only bird that’s gonna get killed when Stromer is around is me,” Matts says ominously.

 

“Davo can come too,” Mitch grins.

 

“Right. That way, they’re never going to find my body.”

 

“Don't worry, Matts. I would ensure you have a proper burial,” Mitch chirps.

 

Matts ignores him and pulls out his phone. “The dates would work for me. I think it’s the second week of August?”

 

“Yeah, that sounds right,” Mitch confirms. “I’ve got a trip planned with my family the week before, so it’d work out well with me.”

 

“Before I agree to this cockamamie idea, I want to make sure Davo is going to be there,” Matts says adamantly.

 

“I think you have more chances of surviving Stromer than you have of surviving Davo,” Mitch comments.

 

“Bullshit,” Matts says, waving his hand dismissively. He picks up his phone and starts texting. “Davo needs to uphold his reputation as the heir to Crosby’s throne. He’s not going to bloody his hands. Stromer, on the other hand, doesn't have that incentive. He’s more likely to put poison in my drink and bury me in the desert.”

 

“I didn't think of that,” Mitch admits. “Still, I wouldn't underestimate what Davo is capable of.”

 

“Trust me, Marns. I’m not,” Matts says. “But I’ll take my chances with McDavid, if you don't mind. Davo’s checking is calendar,” Matts then explains, which suggests he has indeed texted Connor.

 

After a minute, Mitch’s phone buzzes and it’s Stromer.

 

_Desert double date? I’ll bring a shovel._

Mitch decides against showing the text to Matts.

**XII. Dylan**

“How was your trip?” Dylan asks Mitch a few weeks later. Mitch has just gotten back from a short holiday with his family. He’s kind of red all over—Mitch doesn't tan—but he looks well, rested and relaxed. There is no tension around his eyes, and he has a big grin on his face.

 

“It was good,” Mitch says bouncing on his toes. “Too hot some days, but good.”

 

“You’re going to love Arizona, then,” Davo says.

 

They are at Connor’s, and they are supposed to drive to the airport to catch a flight for Phoenix in less than 24 hours. Dylan is still not completely sold on this brilliant idea of Marns’, but he’s willing to entertain the possibility he might be wrong.

 

“Arizona is going to suck,” Mitch states. “What the fuck is there anyway?”

 

“I hope you don’t kiss Matts with that mouth,” Dylan tells him, because sometimes Mitch needs to be reminded that he’s an adult.

 

“Of course not,” Mitch huffs.

 

“Oh,” Dylan waggles his eyebrows. “Still courting, yes?”

 

He sees Connor roll his eyes. For his part, Mitch goes even redder than he already is, but he doesn't say anything.

 

Dylan is not sure what’s going on between Mitch and Matthews. Or rather, he knows _nothing_ is going on between the two of them, because Mitch would have told him. Still, he isn’t sure he knows what’s going through Mitch’s mind when it comes to Matts. Mitch has been particularly cagey about his feelings for his teammate since they started hanging out together again about a month ago.

 

“Wait a second,” Davo interjects. “Are you guys dating?”

 

Dylan is in love with a moron—there is no doubt. He wonders if it’s because he rooted for the Flyers in a previous life.

 

“Of course not, Davo,” Dylan tells him, before Mitch can.

 

Mitch glares at Dylan. “What?” Dylan asks. “You guys are not dating, right?”

 

“No, but I can speak for myself Dyls,” Mitch grumbles. He is on the living-room armchair, sprawled out like he has no plans to leave until they have to go to the airport.

 

“Sorry, Marns,” Dylan says sheepishly. The habit to run interference for Mitch is a bit too ingrained for Dylan to be able to turn it off easily.

 

“No, I’m sorry,” Marns smiles apologetically. “I’m just nervous.”

 

“Because of tomorrow?” Davo asks. His head in on Dylan’s lap, and he’s playing on his phone.

 

“Kind of?”

 

“Is it because of Matts?” Davo inquires.

 

“No, Davo. It’s because I’m always worried when I have to be seen in public with you,” Mitch says, sulking.

 

Davo gets up quickly. “Really?”

 

_Yep_ , Dylan thinks. _With a moron._

“No, Davo, not really,” Mitch snorts.

 

“It’s because of Matts, Connor,” Dylan explains to his boyfriend. And Mitch thinks _Dylan_ needs diagrams. He clearly hasn't spent enough time with Davo over the years. If Dylan needs diagrams, Davo needs a fucking translator.

 

“Why didn't you say so?” Davo says, but there is a twinkle in his eyes. Dylan suspects him and Mitch are being taken for a ride, here.

 

“You guys have been talking, though, right?” Dylan says.

 

“Yeah,” Mitch admits. “It’s just weird, you know.”

 

“It’s going to be fine, Marns,” Dylan reassures him. Then a thought occurs to him. “He hasn't been pressuring or anything, has he?”

 

“Nope,” Mitch says. Dylan sees Davo looks closely at their friend.

 

“Ah,” Davo says. “You have a problem with him being a gentleman?”

 

“A gentleman? Auston Matthews?” Mitch looks at Davo like he’s grown a second head. “You’ll see how not a gentleman Matts is when we hang out with him.”

 

“That’s not what I meant, Marns,” Davo says. Now his voice is soft, the way Davo is when he wants people to be serious. Dylan’s been trained to respond to that tone immediately over the years.

 

Mitch wrinkles his nose. “I know,” he mumbles.

 

“Well?” Davo continues his interrogation. He’s looking at Marns intently, and Dylan doesn't envy his friend one bit. Davo gets way too intense, even off the ice.

 

“I just don't know what I want,” Marns finally confesses. “It’s getting a bit annoying.”

 

Dylan looks at Davo, who looks back.

 

“It might be a bit early to make that kind of decision,” Davo suggests gently.

 

“That’s what I thought as well,” Mitch agrees. “But I miss him so much when he’s not around. I missed him even when I was mad at him.”

 

Dylan remembers that. As much as Mitch had been mad and hurt during those months, he’d always missed his friends, _especially_ Auston.

 

“Are you still mad at him?” Davo asks shrewdly.

 

“Sometimes,” Mitch admits. “But not often, not anymore.”

 

“Have you forgiven him?” Davo carries on.

 

Mitch looks at Dylan like Dylan could convince Connor McDavid to stop the third degree. Dylan shrugs, thus letting Mitch know he better suck it up and deal with it.

 

“Yeah, I think so. I definitely told him. I mean, I texted him first, but I also told him. It seemed important to actually say that to his face.”

 

“Okay,” Davo comments. “And are you in love with him?”

 

“Connor,” Dylan yells, because there are boundaries, for fuck’s sake.

 

“Shut up, Stromer,” Davo shushes him.

 

Dylan sends Mitch an apologetic glance, but Mitch doesn't seem too bothered by Davo’s question.

 

“Some days I think I am,” he explains. “Other days I think I just want my friend back. I get so confused I don't know which way is up.”

 

“It might really be too soon,” Dylan suggests. He has no shred of a doubt that Mitch loves Auston Matthews. The in-love part is more debatable, for sure, although Dylan thinks the potential is there. Mitch behaved like he’d broken up with his partner of fifteen years after Vegas. One doesn't have such a strong reaction to losing one’s friend.

 

“Though I advise against waiting too long,” Davo says somberly.

 

“Yeah, I know. Dylan already gave me the five-year speech,” Mitch says.

 

“Well,” Davo claps his hands, “the good news is that you don't have to decide today. You don't, right?”

 

“No,” Mitch says. “It’s not like Matts is waiting for me or anything like that. But I don't want to keep him in limbo forever.”

 

“I thought you said he doesn't expect anything,” Dylan comments slightly puzzled. He remembers the conversation very clearly, since it had been the very first one Mitch and Matts had had after months of not really talking.

 

“He doesn't,” Mitch confirms.

 

“So what’s the problem?” Dylan asks.

 

“What if I do? Expect something?” Mitch says.

 

Dylan looks at Davo, who smiles happily.

 

“Well,” Dylan says cautiously—he’s not sold on the idea that Auston Matthews might be the best person to take care of Mitch’s heart. Davo’s convinced it’s the best idea _ever_ , but Davo’s friends with Taylor Hall.

 

“If you do,” Davo takes over, “then you should tell him.”

 

Mitch chews on his bottom lip. “I guess.”

 

“Seriously, though, Marns,” Dylan says. “You don't want to wait for five years, but you don't have to do it in five weeks either. There is a happy medium between the two extremes.”

 

“I don't even know if he’s still interested,” Mitch murmurs.

 

Dylan snorts, because that’s so not going to be the problem. Auston has been texting Dylan almost daily during the past week to plan their Arizona trip. Everything he had suggested they do had been followed by the question “Do you think Marns would like that?” Not to mention, _Auston had been texting Dylan almost daily._ The guy has balls of steel. Dylan has been polite, because Davo has been supervising his exchanges. He also appreciates the effort Matts is putting into all this. It doesn't mean he hasn't ordered a shovel on Amazon. It got delivered to his Glendale condo two days ago.

 

“My suggestion is that you tell him what’s happening, so he knows and he can tell you what’s going on with him,” Davo says.

 

“I guess,” Mitch concedes.

 

“Possibly not when we’re around,” Dylan says. He loves Mitch, but he’s got enough heart-to-heart convos with Davo. He really doesn't want to stumble upon Mitch and Matts’.

 

“I’ll try not to,” Mitch says with a dorky grin on his face.

 

Dylan feels relieved when he sees it, to be honest.

 

“I mean it, Marns,” Dylan insists. “No lovey-dovey conversations while I’m within a mile-radius. I don't think I would survive.”

 

“Don't front it, Stromer,” Mitch laughs. “You need all the lovey-dovey tips you can get.”

 

“I assure you I do not,” Dylan defends himself primly. “Davo is perfectly satisfied with the romance in our relationship.”

 

“There is no romance in our relationship, Stromer,” Davo deadpans.

 

Mitch laughs and high-fives Davo—who still does _that_? Dylan ignores the two of them. His boyfriend is a moron, and his best friend is an idiot. Maybe Dylan should ask Matthews if he wants to wear Dylan’s friendship bracelet or something.

**XIII. Epilogue – Mitch**

Mitch has mixed feelings about Arizona, which up until this trip he only saw from hotels’ windows and the team’s bus. It’s too fucking hot. Granted, it’s August, so it’d be hot pretty much everywhere in this hemisphere. Yet, there is a difference between hot and _hot._ The only one who doesn't have a problem with it is Auston, who walks around as if it were 20 degrees Celsius instead of 35.

 

Arizona is also achingly beautiful, with its endless deserts, its stunning sunsets and a weird vegetation Mitch cannot even begin to comprehend. It’s definitely a place of contrasts, much more than the GTA, and Mitch is as fascinated by it as he’s confused.

 

Arizona is also Auston’s home, and it shows. Auston is relaxed here—more than Mitch has ever seen him. He doesn't look like a generational talent carrying the weight of an Original Six franchise on his shoulder. He looks like a twenty-one years old kid enjoying some time off with his friends. Mitch likes that. He likes it a lot.

 

Arizona is the place where Stromer is currently working, so Auston has been showing Mitch and Davo around while Dylan does his charity thing—it’s with children, and Dylan always loves that. He comes back to his condo, where Mitch and Davo are staying, excited about the whole project. He’s also excited he’s not the one who has to navigate Phoenix’s traffic or the city’s landmarks. Mitch gathered Dylan’s done all the touristy shit once he first moved down and he’s more than happy to delegate the chaperoning to Auston until he’s done with the Coyotes.

 

Today it’s only Mitch and Auston, however. Davo stayed behind because he wants to give them some space. Mitch told him it wasn't necessary, since he can talk to Auston once they’re back in Toronto. Mitch has decided not to go to LA, since all his trainers are in Toronto; plus, he wants to spend as much time as he can with Stromer before the beginning of the season.

 

The night before, Auston had suggested driving to the Phoenix Zoo, and Mitch had agreed happily, because there is a petting zoo. They get there early enough, but there are plenty of people around already. Luckily, Phoenix is not Toronto, and hockey is not football, so they aren’t recognized.

 

They make their way to the Harmony Farm, conveniently located not too far from the entrance, right besides the Tropics Trail, which is next on the list of activities they’re partaking in. Mitch bounces around excitedly, pointing at animals left and right while Auston follows along good-naturedly. Once they get to their destination, Mitch spends a satisfying hour petting sheep and goats to the amusement of parents and children alike.

 

“I’d like to point out we’re the only adults not accompanied by children,” Auston whispers at some point.

 

“I told you we should have brought Stromer,” Mitch grins after giving one last pat on a baby goat’s head.

 

Auston laughs and shakes his head. Mitch grabs him by the arm and drags him towards the next section of the zoo.

 

“You done cuddling cute animals?” Auston asks amused.

 

“Fuck off, I’m super cute cuddling with cute animals,” Mitch says.

 

“The fifty pictures you made me take beg to differ,” Auston chirps, but Mitch ignores him. He knows better, anyway.

 

“Marty definitely approves,” Matts says, showing a message he’s gotten in response to Mitch and Matilda the Mother Hen—Matts had found the alliteration hilarious.

 

“See, I told you,” Mitch grins satisfied.

 

“Whatever, Marns? Where to next?”

 

They make their way through the Tropical Trail, grab something to eat at one of the many places strategically located to attract starving visitors and then continue on towards the Africa Trail.

 

Mitch is happy, so much so that he grabs Auston’s arm again to drag him close to the Giraffe Overlook. Once he’s there, however, he discovers that there is also a Giraffe Encounter outpost, where you can actually get up close to the giraffes. So he grabs Auston _again_ , by the hand this time, and runs towards the installation without letting go of Auston. It’s only when they get there that Mitch realizes he’s been holding onto Auston for the better part of the last five minutes.

 

“Oh,” he says eloquently. He feels a bit stupid, but, then, he’d been distracted by the giraffes.

 

Auston doesn't seem perturbed at all, and he hasn't let go of Mitch’s hand, so he’s not offended—though they should talk about PDA if they go down this road. Not to mention a bazillion other things that come with dating each other while playing in the NHL.

 

“What’s with your obsessions with giraffes, Marns?” Auston asks.

 

Mitch doesn't answer. He just looks at Auston, and then at their linked hands, as if they hold the answer to all the questions Mitch has been trying to answer as of late. He really doesn't want to let go, but every second that passes increases the risk they might get caught.

 

“This sucks,” he mutters.

 

“The giraffes?” Auston asks puzzled.

 

“No, no,” Mitch says, letting go of Auston’s hand. Auston doesn't look too pleased with this new development, but he doesn't move to take Mitch’s hand back.

 

“Then what?”

 

“We are at the fucking zoo, Matts,” Mitch whines.

 

“I though you wanted to come to the zoo, Marns,” Auston says worriedly.

 

“Of course I wanted to come,” Mitch replies. “But we can’t kiss in the middle of the Phoenix Zoo.”

 

Auston is wearing sunglasses, so Mitch cannot see his eyes. He does see his eyebrows rising to his forehead, however. He also sees Auston’s cheeks redden, in a much more graceful manner than other number-one-draft picks that’ll go unnamed.

 

“We can’t?” Auston says nonsensically.

 

“We have such a shitty timing,” Mitch ignores him.

 

“We?” Auston scoffs.

 

“Sorry,” Mitch says sheepishly. “I have such a shitty timing.” The last thing he was thinking when he got up this morning was that today would be the day he decided he wants to try this thing with Auston.

 

Auston removes his sunglasses, and Mitch thinks it polite to do the same.

 

“I’m not going anywhere, Marns,” he tells him, his eyes warm and soft.

 

Mitch wrinkles his nose. “I know.”

 

“Do you?” Auston asks.

 

“Yes. I think so.”

 

“Then don't rush on my account,” Auston says, passing his arm around Mitch’s shoulder and giving him a side-hug. Then he leads them towards the Giraffe Encounter area.

 

“I’m not rushing,” Mitch says stubbornly.

 

“Still not going anywhere,” Auston says amused.

 

Mitch huffs. “I know. I still want to kiss you right now.”

 

“We’re not kissing for the first time in the middle of the Phoenix Zoo, Marns,” Auston says firmly.

 

“Why not? I mean, we can look for a secluded spot. I’m sure there are making out places around here,” Mitch says warming up to the idea. Now that he’s made his decision, he’s ready to rock and roll.

 

“Because Stromer would kill me, Davo would help him bury the body, and Mo and the rest of the team would do everything they can to erase my legacy from the annals of hockey history.”

 

“You’ve been playing professionally for two years, Matts. There is no fucking legacy,” Mitch chirps him.

 

“Three,” Auston corrects him. Mitch rolls his eyes, but doesn't say anything.

 

“I would protect you,” Mitch tries to reassure him.

 

“You and what army?” Matts responds, and Mitch shoves him.

 

“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly,” Matts continues, grabbing Mitch’s hand. They’re still in the middle of the fucking zoo and there are plenty of people, especially children, around, but nobody is paying attention to them.

 

“I will take you out on a date,” Matts elaborates. “Wine you and dine you, drive you back home and then I will kiss you.”

 

“Fine,” Mitch concedes. “Though it’s going to be weird to be driven back home to Stromer’s house.”

 

“We’re not doing anything until we’re back in Toronto, Mitch, so don't go spread tales to Stromer,” Matts says.

 

“What? Why not?” Mitch asks aghast.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Matts repeats for the third time. “Are you?”

 

Mitch thinks about it for a minute. If he is really into trying this, into giving Auston a chance, into giving his own feeling for Auston a chance, then the ‘when’ doesn't really matter.

 

“No, I’m not,” he admits.

 

“Then we can wait a while longer,” Matts tells him.

 

Mitch looks at him and sees nothing but determination and kindness in Auston’s face.

 

“You know I wasn't expecting anything, Mitch,” Auston says softly when Mitch doesn't find any words for him.

 

“It’s not just about how you feel, Auston,” Mitch says.

 

“I understand. But I don't want to screw this up,” Auston explains. “I’ve already screwed it up so badly I almost lost us forever. One more month is not going to make any difference.”

 

“As long as it’s not five years,” Mitch says. When Auston furrows his forehead in confusion he tells him, “I’ll explain once Davo and Stromer are not around.”

 

“Alright?” Auston asks.

 

Mitch ponders the offer for a second. “Can we still hold hands?” he says with a small smile.

 

“Probably not in public,” Auston says, although he doesn't let go of Mitch just yet.

 

“And can we cuddle?”

 

“I doubt we’re going to be alone together for any stretch of time, especially if you tell Stromer. So no, we’re not cuddling in front of him and Davo,” Matts states.

 

“Fine,” Mitch concedes, because they’re definitely going to cuddle in front of Stromer and Davo, and Matts is just going to have to deal with it.

 

“And we’re still gonna hang out together, right?” Mitch asks, because it’s important to him that they do. They’ve worked so hard to become friends again, Mitch wants to enjoy his time with Matts, even if there is a moratorium on kissing.

 

“Not going anywhere, Mitch,” Auston says, and Mitch smiles ruefully.

 

They’ve reached the Giraffe Encounters platform, and the giraffes are really fucking close and really fucking cool. Mitch grabs Auston’s hand and drags him as close to the rail as they can get.

 

This is neither the time nor the place for Mitch to tell Auston that he loves him, to remind him that he has forgiven him, and to confess that he’s also in love with him. It can wait for when they’re back in Toronto, with their teams and their fans, in the city that Mitch didn't think could still be _theirs._

In the meantime, Mitch’s going to enjoy the sun on his face, Auston’s solid body besides his, and Auston’s hand in his. He has two good friends waiting for him when he gets home, and so many more once he returns to Toronto.

 

The giraffes are pretty cool too.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of disordered eating, sleeplessness and depression.


End file.
